


Eddie

by spideywhiteys



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Child Abuse, Child Death, Death, Depression, Dissociation, F/M, Fluff, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Male OC - Freeform, Multi, Murder, OR IS IT, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Semi-SI, Slash, Suicide Attempt, There's a bit of that, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Twin Bond, Uhh so, Unethical Experimentation, a mash up, also my own take on things, but it's TMR what did you expect, dying, general violence, lots of canon character death, newt's original name was Samuel idc what u say, some people don't die that should but i'm not telling you who, the Flare is movie-verse version, there is a lot of terror and sadness, they are CHILDREN karen, this is a mix of movie and book verse, thomas and eddie are telepathic, thomas' original name was stephen!!!, twinfic, yeah the main ship is gAY
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-03-27 18:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 141,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13887054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spideywhiteys/pseuds/spideywhiteys
Summary: My second life begins in a world of heat and death with him by my side. It begins again in a maze, where I can only remember a false name and the feeling of being incomplete.( They told me to protect him with every breath, but I was doing it long before they felt the need to tell me. )--It feels like a loss. They’re shaping us into something new, forcing our hand when we don’t respond the way they want. It’s just a name, yes, but it’s the name our parents gave us. It’s all we have left that belongs to us, and now we can’t even keep that.The pain stops, but there’s an ache that I can feel in every muscle of my body and mind. I lay gasping on the floor until the door opens, barely able to move my body as Stevie is dragged back inside. I grunt, raising myself to onto my knees as Stevie is dropped besides me. Like beacons, we seek each other, curling our throbbing bodies together and sighing with relief.Pre-TMR to Post Death Cure.





	1. Hello, Again

It takes an embarrassingly long time to realize I’ve died and I don’t know where I am. The memories are like fragments, splintered and disjointed like a puzzle with a few of the wrong pieces.  _ Dying seems traumatic enough to do that, _ I think, though it’s not like I’ve got previous experience. The world comes into focus slowly, black fading to colored masses, and then from there the colors separate into their own shapes. I feel like I’ve both been asleep for a long time and not long enough. 

 

_ I died. _

 

I think; I  _ remember _ . The feeling of limbs tingling with numbness and darkness (so  _ final _ ) creeping across my vision. The feeling of dying is  **there** in stark relief, echoing in my chubby, infantile limbs. But the actual reason for my passing escapes me, as do a lot of details about who I once was. ( I  _ was _ someone else once, though. That much is certain. )

 

And yes, I said  _ infantile _ . ( In case you missed it. )

 

Because I’m a baby now. A tiny, blubbery mess of uncoordinated limbs with zero control of my basic bodily functions. I don’t know where I am, who I am, or what I am - because when people die they don’t come back, definitely not like this! Right? I’m almost positive. There isn’t much I remember about my first self in terms of personal facts, but general information remains clear. I can remember how to read, use computers, ride a bike; useless facts in comparison to the gaping hole left in my memory, leaving the question of who  _ I  _ am. No name, no gender - sure, I’m aware I’m a dude right now, but was I before? 

 

For so long I was in the dark, floating and unaware of my own existence. Then the veil was lifted and I am left floundering, dropped in a new environment with no explanation. 

 

My freak out lasts all of an hour, as my mind and body seem to settle, feeling coming back to limbs and vision fully clearing.

 

It’s hot. 

 

As I adjust to the sudden return to the living, it’s the first thing I notice. I’m inside, staring at a dirty white ceiling and surrounded by bars - a crib, my mind supplies - but it’s  _ hot _ . Almost uncomfortably so. I’m only wearing a diaper, but it’s almost too much. It feels like an oven in the room and when I clumsily turn my dumb baby neck I can see that the single window is boarded shut. Nailed, actually. With boards. The observation is worrying. As is the unkempt appearance of the room. I can tell the walls  _ used _ to be a shade of blue, but they seem to be in disrepair, and there’s dust  _ everywhere. _ There’s even piles of sand in the corners and I can hear strange howling from outside. I pray it’s the wind. It feels like a horror movie, the very atmosphere grating on already fraying nerves. 

 

So the noise in my ear scares the ever-loving  _ shit _ out of me, drawing a strangled cry from heavy lips. Chubby fists flail as I whip around, eyes wide with startled terror - only to settle on a small form. 

 

Another baby. 

 

_ How did I miss that!?  _

 

Tension seeps from my frame, I’m relieved to find that it’s not some monster come to kill me in my vulnerable state. The baby beside me makes a sleepy noise, button nose scrunching as they slowly wake. I’m greeted by a lovely pair of brown eyes, brimming with childish innocence and the disconnect of a mind not fully developed. Cute. I make a noise in return, almost unconsciously, and get a gummy smile and a weird, half-smack on my arm as a response. It smarts a little, but I can’t bring myself to care. Babies are so . . . Cute. There’s that word again. It’s not leaving anytime soon. 

 

“Oh,” a soft murmur from a corner of the room. I freeze, startled once again. The baby beside me reacts as well, obviously thrown by my negative reaction, and cries out. 

 

“Sh, sh,” coos the voice. It’s a woman, and I turn to finally glimpse her as she approaches. Dark hair, dark eyes, stress lines on her face and care in her smile.  _ Mother,  _ I think, because she has the same eyes as the baby beside me.

 

“Don’t cry, Stephen.” She says to the fussy baby, “There’s nothing to fear.”

 

I have a name for my baby friend. Stephen. Is Stephen my brother? I think so. Something innate tells me that the boy is  _ mine, _ a part of my soul. The woman - mother, I remind myself - brushes a careful hand down Stephen’s back to soothe him.

 

“Please,” she suddenly whispers, a tone of weary desperation in her voice. “Be quiet like Michael, please.”

 

My name is Michael. 

 

My name is Michael and I almost don’t care because I’m suddenly hit with a wave of terror. There is something unnatural going on, something that doesn’t make sense and I know with horrible, terrible clarity that it’s  _ bad.  _ Mother is scared, the room is decrepit, there are noises I can hear through the walls and boarded window, and it’s too hot. 

 

_ Where am I?  _ I think, unsure if I truly desire an answer. 

 

* * *

 

My name is Michael and my brother’s name is Stephen. We’re twins, and almost a year old. After a week I know that much. My new birthday is still a mystery, as is the world outside. Mother  _ never _ takes us out, and I’m not sure if I really want to know what’s out there anyway. It’s hot enough inside, I dread to think what the heat is like in the sun. Being breastfed is awful and scarring and I try my best not to think about it, as there are no alternatives unless I want to starve. I’m certain there is nothing like  _ formula _ in the house. There isn’t much of anything, actually. It’s quite obvious that food is scarce and water is a treasured commodity. The world is different from what I remember, but perhaps there is a reason for that. 

 

There is a lot of time to think about it, with only Stephen and our mother for company. One theory is that I’m a botched reincarnation and it was like a  _ million _ years in the future. Another was alternate universe, but I’m less sold on that one. It has to be some time in the future. Or rather, ‘future’ in terms of my relative ‘present’. Because I am here now so this  _ is  _ my present. My current time. It’s weird to think about - and honestly I can  _ think _ about it all I want, but I know I won’t get a solid answer until I’m older and able to see what is outside. 

 

We have a father, Stevie and I. At least, I assume that the man is our father. He appears twice in the week and never for long, with severely tan, sunburnt skin and haunted hazel eyes. I don’t know where my father goes or why he constantly looks so haggard, but the answer seems to lie in the world beyond the walls. 

 

* * *

 

“Stevie, no.” I scold, tugging a brittle piece of plastic from my twin’s grabby hands. The fellow two year old pouts, using his impressive toffee eyes in attempt to sway his older brother. 

 

“Mike-mike,” the boy implores, making a grabbing gesture with his hand, “Gimme.”

 

“I don’t think so.” I respond, still holding out hope that my brother will drop the silly nickname. I know I’m unnaturally articulate for a toddler, and sometimes I get worried glances from our mother and father, but I really  _ don’t  _ care. In the year or so I’ve been here, I’ve gathered that the world outside is a disaster and I need everything I can to get a leg up in the whole  **survival** game if I want to be able to protect my new family. Stephen is my pride and joy, the love of my life and the other half of my soul. I don’t think I was a twin in my last life, because I could never forget a feeling like  _ this.  _ We are so in tune, able to sense each other’s emotions and predict reactions. It’s like we’re tuned in to the same wavelength, separate from everyone else. Locked on the same radio station that only we can hear. 

 

Surprisingly, I don’t hate it, despite having to filter through infant emotions and tantrums not my own. Above all and no matter what, I am completely taken by Stephen. In this world I’m physically older than Stephen by a few minutes. Mentally...well, I’m not sure of the exact number but I’m definitely far older than Stephen and therefore feel much more protective seeing as I have the capacity to do so.

 

And as I wave the dumb piece of plastic over my head and out of Stevie’s reach, I know without a doubt that I will do anything for this boy. Even brave the outdoors, though the mere thought terrifies me and I still have never seen it. 

 

Sometimes, late at night, horrible sounds will pierce through the shoddy walls of our home. Noises like screams or guttural croaks - or even gunfire. On these nights I make sure to curl extra close to Stevie in our shared crib. We’re outgrowing it steadily but that’ll be a problem for another day.

 

The plastic is snatched from my hands by our mother, who looks at the two of us with an exasperated smile. She loves us, I can tell. But she still looks too old for her age and too scared. I know now that when she soothes us at night and tells us that everything will be okay...she’s lying. But it helps, if only for a moment.

 

“No eating the plastic, Stevie.” She scolds, lighthearted and looking happier than I have seen in a few days. Our dad must be coming home today, from his usual supply runs. She always looks happier when he’s around, and I can’t blame her because I know they love each other. 

 

Stevie looks very put out by this reprimand, lip quivering and brown eyes getting impossibly wider. In my chest, I can feel the tug of an oncoming tantrum. 

 

“No.” I bop Stevie on the nose, pat his cheek with the other hand and cuddle up beside the other boy. Stevie looks bewildered for all of five seconds before he’s babbling excitedly into my ear and pinching my arm with deceptively strong baby fingers. Mother looks delighted, as she usually does when I manage to calm Stevie in my own unconventional ways. We haven’t been told why she prefers that we stay quiet, but I know it must be for good reason. Luckily, Stevie isn’t too fussy a baby and I’m always there to settle him when needed. 

 

If our mom worries about the fact that I’m practically half-raising Stevie, she doesn’t let it show. 

 

“Dad home soon?” I ask, keeping my sentence choppy on purpose. Mother offers a smile, tickling Stevie’s tummy. He squeals loudly and one of his flailing arms hits my own. I ignore it, far too accustomed to Stevie’s whipping limbs. 

 

“Yes,” she nods in response to my question, hesitation on her features. She looks at us with an expression I can’t decipher, yet it’s one I’ve seen many times before. “It’s better when he’s here, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah.” Of course it is. Despite not being a constant presence, the man is still our father. His presence will always be appreciated.

 

“Nums?” Stevie speaks up suddenly, finally recovered from his laughing fit. His uncoordinated hands flap in some strange gesture, obviously thinking it’ll help get his meaning across.

 

“Food.” I correct, and Stevie mimes to the word obediently. There’s no doubt he’ll forget it within seconds. Mother is silent for a moment, lips parted and fingers tapping a nervous beat on the hastily swept floor, her legs folded beneath her. 

 

“Of course he’s bringing food, Stevie!” Her voice is layered with forced enthusiasm, unnoticeable to the youngest twin. “He always does.”

 

She doesn’t say that what he brings isn’t always enough for the four of them, but I know it to be true anyway. 

 

* * *

 

“Away from the windows!” Mother scolds, nervous hands pulling us from the boarded up panes. At four years old we’re  _ just _ tall enough to grip the sill and peer through the very bottom sliver between the boards if we stand on our tiptoes. Stevie is curious, and his thirst for knowledge grows with every day that passes. I am also quite interested in glimpsing the world outside for once, it certainly isn’t healthy to stay in this house forever. Three years is already unbearable, and it can’t be too bad if our father can traverse the outdoors and make it back every time.

 

I make a sound of annoyance, mirrored by my twin. All we’d managed to see was bright, blinding light and sand. Our eyes hadn’t had time to adjust so details had been impossible to discern. Stevie huffs, tiny arms crossing and lip jutting out, not happy about being denied a view of the outside. 

 

“I wanna see!” He mutters petulantly and I’m inclined to agree, my head nodding along vehemently with Stevie’s words. We’re getting bigger everyday, able to wander and open doors - our curiosity already causing trouble. She  _ has _ to tell us eventually. I just need it to be sooner rather than later, before I die from cabin fever. So I take the direct route, wanting an answer despite Mother’s skittish body language.

 

“Why are you afraid?” I ask, and my eyes (undoubtedly brown, like Stevie’s) bore into hers. “What’s out there? Why can’t we leave?” I sound beyond my years but dammit, I wanna finally know what’s going on in this hell hole!

 

Stevie is, for once, silent. His posture mimics my own and not for the first time I find myself glad that we operate like two halves of the same machine. With the two of us holding steady and demanding answers, it’s not long before Mother’s mask crumbles and her shoulders sag. I almost feel bad, realizing in that moment that what she tells us could be  _ atrocious _ . There had to be a  **reason** , after all, for why she wanted to keep us in the dark. Perhaps it was to protect our innocence? If the world was a shithole I’d probably wanna keep my kids in the dark and thinkin’ about rainbows and sunshine too. But, try as I might - I’m not really a child. Mentally, at least. I hate being coddled and find myself preferring to  _ give _ care rather than receive it. Being an older sibling suits me perfectly, and I like to make myself as self-sufficient as possible despite being physically four years old.

 

“Okay,” she breathes, watching me with what looks to be regret and defeat, “Okay...you always were a precocious child, Michael. I knew this was coming, I just—” a pause, her breath hitching. Now I’m feeling uncomfortable. I wonder if she’s about to cry. I’m not good with tears, and seeing your parental figure break into tears was always unsettling. Luckily she pulls herself together and drops down onto the shoddy couch shoved against the wall - opposite the window. Stevie matches my steps and we walk over to her, pulling our little bodies onto the patchy cushions and settling beside her.

 

“We can’t go outside because it’s dangerous,” she begins, hands in her lap and eyes glued to the boarded window. “Years ago, the sun burned the earth and left it a wasteland.”

 

I blink wildly, completely stunned. Of course, the possibility of solar flares destroying the earth wasn’t unheard of, in fact it was sort of expected. But not for millions or billions of years! Just how far into the future am I? The thought of the world outside being a desert wasteland is scary and hard to believe.  _ Borderlands. I bet the world is like Borderlands and there’s mutant Skags and cannibals.  _ The video game comes to mind as I try to reconcile the idea of a lush, green world with a burnt, sandy one. 

 

“There’s something else. We call it the Flare.”

 

That sounds even  _ less _ good. 

 

“It’s a disease,” she continues, brushing her shaking fingers through Stevie’s hair as he looks at her with faint confusion. He doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation, but knows that for whatever reason, outside the walls of our home is dangerous. “There’s no cure. Those who catch it - they don’t recover. It’s a very, very bad sickness, okay boys? So please, until you’re old enough - don’t go outside.”

 

I can’t help but think that our father must be very brave to wander into a world like that to find ways to provide for us. And I’m gripped by the terrifying realization that I can’t defend my family from an incurable disease. It’s a battle that I can’t fight.

 

* * *

 

Six months, three weeks and two days later, our father comes home from one of his trips and is silent. There’s a pensive look on his face as he smiles at Stevie and I, before beckoning mother into the other room. Stevie waves briefly before returning to his book, enthralled in the weathered pages of  _ Alice in Wonderland. _ I’m quite proud of my little brother’s progress. Stevie is exceptionally smart for a normal almost-five year old. He’s even trying to forgo his childish way of speaking to sound more like me, which is adorable and leaves my chest feeling light. 

 

A low, wounded noise echoes from where our parents had gone, and the both of us freeze at the sound. Stevie meets my eyes, our matching gazes reflecting worry between us. Simultaneously, we rise from our seats at the crooked kitchen table and meet in the middle. We reach out and hold hands, grounding each other with familiar grips. Stevie takes the first step and I follow, trepidation growing as we approach the opening to the living room. 

 

Mother is wrapped around father, her back to us and her face buried in his shoulder. Father is stony faced, gaze downcast and jaw clenched. His arms are around her as well, and on his wrist where his sleeve is riding up are pulsing black lines under his skin.

 

Father has the Flare.

 

* * *

 

We turn five, but there isn’t much celebration. Stevie is mildly oblivious, despite knowing that there is something wrong with his father. It’s hard to hide, especially since the man no longer goes out as often, and mother now leaves the house instead on occasion. I am terrified. Despite having never seen an infected person before, I know what illness looks like and those disgusting, growing black lines are hard to hide when they begin to spread. Our father doesn’t really touch us anymore. I wonder if it’s spread through contact. Or maybe even bodily fluids. 

 

_ We probably all have it already.  _ I think, one terrible, fearful night. There’s more howling outside the walls today, tapering during the day only to rise in an awful cacophony when night falls. Those sounds scare me more than I’ll ever admit. Because they aren’t just meaningless sounds I can pretend are the wind. It’s people making those wretched screams, people who’ve been infected. The gunshots I’ve heard over time are what happens to the lucky ones. I think I want to be shot if it ever comes down to it. There could be nothing worse than losing your mind to the Flare.

 

“Psst, Mikey.” a whisper in my ear, my brother’s hand poking into my stomach. I tilt my head towards my twin, tearing my gaze from the boarded window in our room. Only faint moonlight shines through it now.

 

“Yeah, Stevie?” I whisper back, catching Stevie’s prodding hand in mine and holding it tight. Stevie lets me, used to our easy and comforting touches. We’re five years old and we’ve never seen another person outside of our family. We have no one but each other, and no pressure of society to dictate how little boys should act. So we grow softly, like gently budding flowers, rather than brashly like weeds. We don’t rough-house, instead we like to read and draw and tell silly stories. ( Or rather, I tell Stevie a bunch of stories I remember from my past life, and my younger twin listens eagerly ).

 

“Is daddy gonna die?” 

 

I jolt, sure my ears are tricking me. But Stevie just looks at me with wide, neutral eyes, like he already knows the answer to his question. “Why would you ask that?”

 

“B’cause. He’s getting sicker ‘n sicker. And you know what mommy said about…” Stevie trails off, frowning and squinting.

 

“The Flare.” I breathe, body tingling. I hate talking about it, hating  _ thinking _ about it and it’s stupid inevitability.

 

“Yeah. That.” he pauses, like he doesn’t want to ask but he  _ has to _ . Because Stevie is so, so desperately curious about everything. “Does daddy have the Flare?”

 

There’s no beating around the bush here with someone like my little brother. He’s too bright for his own good and a right nag when he wants to be. “....yes.”

 

“Is daddy gonna die?” he asks the dreaded question, one that’s been on my mind for a while now. Mother had told us that there was no cure, not that it killed you. All I really knew was that it did something awful and turned you into a  _ thing _ rather than a person.  _ A disease of the mind, _ she’d explained,  _ though the symptoms are pretty physical as well.  _

 

“I don’t know, Stevie. I really don’t know.” I sigh, desperate hope in my chest. I can only dream, but deep inside I know that what’s happening to our father will not have a happy ending. “I hope not.”

 

“Me too.” Stevie breathes, his frame tense beside my own. There’s something else wrong, I can feel it. I don’t even have to be his twin to know, with the amount of anxious energy he’s giving off. “Mikey…”

 

“Yes, Stevie?” I answer, both resigned and curious. Stevie tucks himself closer to my side, and we fit together like puzzle pieces. ( We are, after all, two pieces of a whole. )

 

“Are you going to die?” 

 

Ah, the tragic inevitability of death. We all discover it at some point in our childhood, and at that moment generally become fearful at the prospect of it and the idea of living on a time limit. I can only answer honestly, hoping to end this conversation as swiftly as possible. I don’t want to think about death. Not now. “One day, Stevie, because no one lives forever.”

 

“Yeah.” he hums, because he’s not dumb, “But not anytime soon, right?”

 

“Right.” I agree, though I’ve no way to know for certain if I’m telling the truth. No one does. Life is unpredictable. The whole world could be hit by another solar flare tomorrow and we could all die. We just don’t know. Yet I whisper promises and reassurances to Stevie because it’s all I can do. After all, we might  _ not _ die tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

I’m in the kitchen when the front door explodes open with incredible force, a short scream flying from my throat in surprise. Immediately, I duck behind a counter as my mother screams and screeches and the sound of heavy boots thunder across our dusty, dirty floors. 

 

“Stop! Stop! Leave him alone!” I hear my mother shout, her frantic cries pulling me back into an upright position. But it’s not until I hear my little brother that I leave my hiding spot.

 

“Mommy! Mikey!” he screams, and I fly out of the kitchen as fast as my little legs can carry me, armed only with a blunt pencil. There is a group of people in our living room and foyer, Stevie is in one man’s grasp and our mother is being held back by a few others. They look like soldier, dressed in black uniforms with high-tech guns and helmets. There’s a patch on their shoulders that reads ‘WICKED’. I don’t think about it too long, brandishing my pencil in a distinctly threatening manner despite it probably not being seen as such.

 

“What are you doing!” I screech, “Put my brother down!”

 

They ignore me, of course. 

 

“There’s two of them,” one of them points out the obvious, “ _ Twins. _ ” He sounds oddly happy and astonished by that fact.

 

“Well, grab him and let’s go. We still have a few more houses to hit.” Another says, to mine and my mother’s dismay.

 

“Please, no! Don’t take them!” She begs, and her body trembles like the hands on her arms are all that’s keeping her on her feet.

 

“They need to be tested,” Masked man #3 says, in an attempt to soothe the situation. “If they’re immunes then they could be vital in finding a cure.” Then he shrugs one shoulder. “If they’re not then you’ll get them back.”

 

Stevie shakes in the man’s hold, eyes searching out mine. We stay silent, peering at each other as one of the men approached me and picks me up. There is nothing we can do against these people, not when they’ve got armor and guns. Our mother sobs again, finally sinking to her knees. 

 

The man holding Stevie speaks, “You know who made that, right?” He nods to the single light bulb hanging dangerously from the ceiling. Even though we don’t give him a response he continues, “We should call these two Thomas and Edison.”

 

“I have a name,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes at the guy from over my own captor’s shoulder. “It’s Michael! And his name is Stephen! You can’t just rename us like dogs!”

 

“Relax, kid.” The asshole holding me says unconvincingly. It doesn’t help my mood or shake the worry I feel after the jerk’s comment.

 

The group takes us out of the house, and I catch my first glimpse of the world outside. It’s scorching, and my skin already feels like it’s baking in the sunlight. I hunch and shield my eyes, unable to make out much but dilapidated buildings and  _ sand _ , so much sand. It hits me, as they drag Stevie and I to an aircraft of some sort, that I might never see my mother or father again, and never know what the outside of our house looks like. It’s far too bright and too late to look back and see it.

 

* * *

 

We’re put on a plane. Or at least, some kind of plane - helicopter hybrid. In all honesty it looks like some kind of machine you’d see in a space movie. A man calls it a Berg. It’s a stupid name, I think, bitterly and without much reason. There are two other kids on board with us, a girl and a boy. The girl looks to be older than us by a few years, the boy is probably closer in age to us. Stevie can’t seem to choose what to stare at, he’s never seen so many people in his entire life. That fact makes me cringe, and I place a hand atop his. He turns his hand to interlace our fingers, gripping my hand for stability that we both desperately need. The kid around our age is crying. Great, heaving sobs that wrack his tiny frame as he mewls pathetically for his mother. The display makes me uncomfortable and I feel awful about it, deep inside, but I turn away. I have Stevie to take care of, who peers at the other two kids with thinly veiled curiosity before his wide brown eyes map the shiny, metallic interior of the Berg.

 

_ Maybe we won’t be immune. _ I muse, my own gaze examining the pristine layout of the ship. It’s a wild contrast from the dirty, desolate home Stevie and I were born in.  _ Then again, if we’re immune . . . the Flare won’t kill us. _

 

And that was a fate that terrified me. I didn’t even know that much about the disease, but the very concept of dying by illness or whatever was not how I’d like to go. Prolonged pain and suffering from an incurable disease? I’d rather take the bullet and kill myself, end it on my own terms. But if we were immune, Stevie and I, then that was one less thing I needed to protect him from. 

 

The downside to us being immune, of course, was that our parents were most definitely  _ not _ . Father would die soon, he maybe had months remaining. Mother likely wouldn’t be far behind, because if the soldiers thought she was immune they would have taken her too ( I assume ) and therefore . . . the only logical conclusion is that she wasn’t. I wasn’t old enough to take care of Stevie on my own, with no knowledge of the outside world or how it worked or where to get food and water. We’d die. I had no allusions to that. I didn’t know where these soldiers were taking us, or what they planned on doing to us if we were immune, but I know without a doubt that they’d most certainly need us alive. Being immune was our best chance of survival, not just from the Flare, but from starvation and exposure as well. Being brought back home meant death, no matter how furiously I’d try to prevent it. This world was not kind, and it did not grant miracles to little boys. Not now.

 

“I don’t like this.” Stevie says quietly, our shoulders pressed together. His breath tickles my ear, eyes shifting to the two kids across from us like he’s nervous they’ll hear.

 

“I don’t either.” I whisper back. And I don’t. I really, really don’t.

 

“I want to go home.” he murmurs, brow drawing low. 

 

“Can’t.” I grip his hand tighter. “We can’t do anything against them and . . . if we’re immune - mom and dad aren’t.”

 

Stevie sags against my side, his dark hair brushing my cheek. I’ll say it a thousand times, but he’s absolutely brilliant for a five year old. I’m certain he’s some kind of genius, because he understands right away what I mean. 

 

“We need to be immune.” he breathes, and we glance at each other, our identical eyes blazing.  _ We really are too alike, _ I think.

 

“Yes.” I barely hear myself say it. “Yes, we do.”

 

The Berg takes off and we ride in silence the whole time, hands clasped together. The craft doesn’t make as much noise as I’d expected, which unfortunately means that the sobs coming from the boy across from us are still loud and clear. The girl offers her shoulder for him to cuddle into, though her face looks miserable and tight. She’s also probably annoyed at this kid’s blubbering. But I can’t really blame him. He’s what? Somewhere around five and was just ripped from his family? Any normal kid that young would cry their heart out. Stevie and I are lucky enough to have each other. 

 

My brother seems to grasp that as well, his head leaning on my shoulder and our bodies pressed tightly together side by side. If we’re both here, we can make it. We have to.

 

The Berg lands, and one of the soldier’s approaches us from the front of the craft. 

 

“Get up.” he demands, and ushers us through the opening entryway and off the Berg. Sand whips around us and the sun is low in the sky, painting everything orange and red. The four of us kids stick close together, despite not having said a word to each other on the ride. We’re all here for the same reason, so a sense of trust is easy enough to establish. At least, we hold more trust in each other than we do these men with their helmets and guns.

 

We’re led to a building, surrounded on all sides by soldiers who peer around in the fading light with tense wariness. 

 

They’re watching for Cranks. It makes sense, I rationalize, and am inexplicably relieved when huge mechanical doors open and we’re shuffled inside without incident. I’m not ready to see what the Flare does, not ready to see what our parents will become. And I trust these men as far as I can throw them with the duty of protecting Stevie. 

 

There are lots of people in here, more than Stevie and I can properly comprehend. Sure, I knew what it was like to be surrounded by people ( my old life granted me that ), but it’d been five years of only three other faces. And one of those faces was identical to my own. Seeing so many people with different features and shades of skin and hair and eyes made me stop and stare. Stevie was the same, his mouth open as he gazed around in childish astonishment. A woman in a lab coat approached us, looking harried yet surprisingly gentle.

 

“Hello,” she greets, her hair is bright red and pulled out of her face in a severe ponytail. She scans the four of us with tired blue eyes, resting especially long on my brother and I. I shift under her stare, Stevie turning from his observations to glance at me, then at the woman.

 

“Hello.” we respond at the same time, the other two children mullish and silent. The doctor lady looks a little stunned, yet oddly pleased. I wonder if it’s because we responded, or if it’s because we’re twins. That excitement the soldier back at the house had about us being twins wasn’t forgotten. Scientists loved studying twins, that was a given fact. There were hundreds and thousands of studies and papers and experiments involving them in my universe, and it was likely the same here.

 

“Wonderful,” she laughs a little, and it sounds more like a breath than anything. “Come with me! We’re just gonna get you cleaned up and then run some tests, okay?”

 

_ Like we have a choice,  _ I scowl, but don’t say anything. Our little rag-tag group follows her, trudging through the crazy, high-tech building that looks like something out of a Marvel comic.  _ I’m getting serious Tony Stark vibes from this place. _ Architecture-wise, of course. I doubt Tony Stark would experiment on children. I’m pretty sure all superheroes are vehemently against that, actually.

 

What does that make these people?

 

* * *

 

I shower, because what else can I do but listen to what they tell me to do? I make sure Stevie is in the cubicle next to me and finish as quickly as possible. I don’t like being so naked and vulnerable in an unknown place with unknown people. We are children, yes. But to some that doesn’t mean anything and I will take no chances. They’ve taken our old clothes though, which I have mixed feelings about. They weren’t the best quality and they weren’t in the best state, but they were mine. 

 

It feels weird. The new clothes are nondescript and mute gray, with the word  _ WICKED  _ stamped across the back of the shirt. They’re more comfortable than my old clothes, but I don’t like how everything we own in connection to our lives is being taken from us. I highly doubt that if we prove to be immune we’ll be seeing our clothing again. 

 

_ Stuck here, wearing gray. For the rest of my life. _ I muse,  _ God, I hope not. _

 

“Hurry up, Stevie.”

 

“I will! But the water - the  _ water _ , Mikey!” he exclaims, voice echoing in the stall. He peers at me from beneath the water with bright, amazed eyes. “It’s hot!”

 

“Yeah, it is.” That’s a commodity we didn’t have before. In fact, the idea of a hot shower back home is an abhorrent one, with how hot the air was. The cool water was a reprieve from the sweltering heat. But in here the air is cool and conditioned, so the hot water feels new and heavenly. “Still, hurry up.”

 

I shift, eyes flickering to where the other boy is finishing his own shower, the girl having been led to a different bathroom. He looks impossibly small and thin. It makes me want to . . . I dunno, make him something to eat. Pursing my lips, I turn back to Stevie as I hear the shower squeak off. He wraps a fluffy towel around himself, expression clearly marveling at the texture of it. All our towels had been threadbare and sometimes felt more like sandpaper than fabric. 

 

“This is so - ” he halts, unable to find the right word. His expression changes rapidly before settling on something neutral. “I don’t know if I like it.”

 

“Yeah, you and me both.” I grunt, reaching forward to properly towel off his hair despite his squirming. He finally bats my hands away when his hair is practically dry and poofed in all directions. I hum in satisfaction, tossing the towel off to the side where I’d dropped my own.

 

He dresses quickly, slipping on the plain white shoes we were all given just as the door opens. The three of us tense, Stevie straightening from his feet and grasping my hand tightly. We keep a grip on each other as we’re led down a series of hallways and end up in a room that looks like a makeshift hospital. There’s curtains hanging around from the ceiling that can be drawn to section off little areas with thin beds. Everything looks extremely sterile and orderly and I’m not surprised that they made us shower and clean the dust and sand from our bodies. 

 

Next comes the hard part.

 

“No.” I grind out, glaring scathingly at the Doctor who wants to separate Stevie and I. He’s an older, balding man with light hair and brown eyes. I don’t trust him.

 

“We go together,” Stevie begins, expression mimicking my own.

 

“Or not at all.” I finish, gripping his hand a little tighter. The Doctor glances between us for a moment. 

 

“Fine, fine, that’s okay.” he acquiesces, “You can both sit up on that bed over there.” He gestures to one of the hospital-looking cots, the curtain half drawn around it. 

 

With one last suspicious glare at the man, Stevie and I step forward and march in sync to the area. Like hell I was gonna let them separate the two of us, especially in an unknown place. For all I know, they were just waiting to get us alone and I’d never see Stevie again! 

 

I pat the sheets of the hospital bed, hoisting myself up with minimal difficulty. Stevie grunts, pushing himself up as well and settling besides me. He takes my hand again once we’re both seated and we remain on edge as the Doctor approaches. Stevie has never seen a Doctor in his life, and I haven’t in a long, long time. Something told me this wouldn’t be a  _ typical _ doctor’s visit. 

 

He started with the basics, taking our temperature and blood pressure, listening to our hearts and lungs. Then came time for the needles. Stevie recoiled beside me and I wasn’t far behind, both of us eyeing the syringe with identical looks of distrust. 

 

“I’m going to need to draw some blood from both of you, one at a time.” the Doctor ( I should probably learn his name, but I’m stubbornly resolute in the opinion that I don’t care ) says, eyes pinched and contrasting with the smile on his face. I  _ really _ don’t trust him.

 

“What for?” Stevie asks, his chin on my shoulder and big brown eyes narrowed at the man.

 

“Routine,” the man begins, jaw clenching, “mostly to check your immunity status, but also for other diseases and your nutrient levels.”

 

Stevie purses his lips, obviously not convinced. He makes no move to stick his arm out, which means I’ll have to make the first leap. I’d never been fond of needles in my old life, in fact the idea of someone sliding foreign objects into my skin was absolutely nauseating, but I had to get it over with. They weren’t going to let us leave without doing this, of that I had no doubt. They were too desperate for a cure to let possible candidates slip away simply because of a little needle phobia.

 

“Ok, fine.” I huff, rolling up the sleeve on my left arm. I try not to think about what’s about to happen and grip Stevie’s hand tightly. He doesn’t look happy about my decision but seems to have come to the same conclusion as me.

 

It’s not pleasant. My breaths shake and sweat breaks out on my brow. My skin feels too cold yet too hot, split into two layers, one over the other. Stevie presses into my side and glares for all he’s worth at the Doctor, who’s switching vials as the first one fills. He takes four vials total, leaving me light headed and tingling. My sigh of relief is audible once the needle is out of my skin. I lean my weight on Stevie, providing support as he repeats my actions and winces as a brand new needle enters the tender flesh of his inner elbow. 

 

 

* * *

 

We’re immune. The Doctors are delighted. One some scale, so am I. Our chances of survival have increased, we cannot die from the Flare. It makes me feel a little lighter with the stress of that possible demise removed from the equation. 

 

_ Now we just have to worry about the murderous Cranks, sun radiation, dehydration, starvation and a plethora of other dangerous causes of death.  _ I don’t mean to be so pessimistic, but the world has made it terribly hard to be positive, especially since we were children and had little control over what became of us.

 

We’re allowed to sleep, Stevie and I put in a room with bunk beds that we ignored, cramming into the bottom bunk together. I felt comforted by the weight of him beside me, listening to his soft breaths and imagining his heartbeat in my ear. It took me a long time to fall asleep, though Stevie drifted off after a while, obviously tired from all the excitement during the day. I was too keyed up, terrified and grief-stricken. I keep thinking about how we never really got to say goodbye to our parents. My last memory of my mother will be of her sobbing and restrained by soldiers. And our father hadn’t even been there. Had he come home later in the evening, only to find the door busted and our mother in tears? The two of us nowhere to be found? He would be dead soon, or a Crank. He had weeks at most.

 

I mourned him already, and hated WICKED for taking us from him when he had so little time left. I never wanted to see the man fall to the Flare and deteriorate over time. But if he was going to die, I wanted to spend every second we could with him, to burn the memory of him alive into my mind. They took that from us. 

 

I don’t think I slept, it felt like I blinked and then we were being ushered from the bed. They took us through hallways and strange, industrial areas and tunnels lined with pipes. There was a loud, siren-like sound and a mechanical door whirred open with many clicks and thuds. The sun spilled into the room, far too bright and hot. I shielded my eyes, hissing. Stevie made a similar sound of distaste, his hand once again held tight in my own.

 

A soldier pushed us forward, leading us into the Scorch. In the early light of day that sun seemed far worse, the evening rays nothing compared to the way my visible skin burned now. I felt a tremendous amount of relief when we stepped up into a train, the interior dark and cool. It was a little stuffy, but definitely air conditioned to prevent a likeness to an oven. The train compartment was lengthy and filled with two rows of double seats, separated in the middle by a walkway. Almost every seat was occupied by a child, the youngest I could see was perhaps four, and the oldest looked to be almost thirteen. A majority seemed to be between five and eight.

 

The weight of curious stares made me flush, steps faltering. Stevie took the lead, matching the other children’s looks with his own curious gaze. I stayed just behind him, ducking out of view on occasion and keeping our hands clasped together as he led us to an open set of double seats. He let me in first, so I could be by the window and away from most of the stares. We’d never talked about being social with others, or how we thought we’d act, but Stevie seemed to know instinctively that I was shy. Something I’d never been before around him, yet he accepted it with ease. I really did love this twin bond of ours. 

 

A few kids chatted, but for the most part the train ride was silent, everyone feeling a general sense of unease and despair. Stevie slumped against my side and dozed, lulled by the rumble of the train. I rested my head against his, eyelids drooping. I was exhausted from worrying all night, but I couldn’t let myself fall asleep willingly, not when we were in such an unfamiliar place filled with people. They were other children, sure, but I didn’t know any of them. I simply dozed, drifting in and out of full consciousness, the rumble of moving machinery and quiet voices in my ear.

 

It took hours, though the time passed relatively quickly as Stevie and I dozed on intervals. Stevie didn’t talk to anyone else despite the tug of curiosity I felt in my gut that didn’t belong to me. Instead we kept our heads together and whispered back and forth about a few random topics. He asked for a story so I quietly told him a few stories about Spider-Man. We hadn’t had any comic books back at our house, only a few battered novels. Paper items were few and far between. It made me sad to think about how much the sun flares destroyed, not just people but also history. Artwork and statues and stories, all burned away to ash. Things we couldn’t get back, that lay in museums or undiscovered, gone. The world was a giant sand dune and humanity lost everything but the drive to survive.

 

_ A painting, _ the memory was a faint one,  _ George Washington. Massive, him in the corner and a spread of battle on the rest of the canvas.  _ I remembered walking through a museum and being starstruck at the sight of the huge painting, spanning floor to ceiling and wall to wall. I couldn’t recall the title anymore. The sheer size had impressed me. The very thought that someone had painted every inch of it boggles my mind. I suppose that too has burned under the sun.  _ Humanity. Always fighting. _

 

“I don’t get it,” Stevie mutters, eyes half open, “Why’d he forgive Harry?”

 

“Because he loved him. He was his best friend.” I answer. “Harry did awful things, yeah, but Peter thought he deserved another chance. He couldn’t give up on his friend . . . on his family.”

 

“Oh.” my brother hums, understanding. “I guess I see it now. I’d forgive you if you were Harry.”

 

“Does that make you Spider-Man?” I tease, nudging him with my elbow. He laughs quietly, shaking his head.

 

“Nah, if I got to choose, I’d wanna be Iron Man!” he admits, “You’re Spider-Man.”

 

Of course, I’m delighted by the comparison, but also worried. My head is filled with knowledge of comic books ( Spider-Man extensively ) and Peter Parker has a lot of darkness and pain and rage. But he is also kind, and for the life of me I hope that  _ that _ is the part of me that Stevie sees.

 

“Thanks.” I say, still bashful at the comparison because no matter what, Spider-Man is my favorite. “I think you’d make a great Iron-Man, Stevie. You’re super smart.”

 

He grins a little, “Yeah, yeah. He’s smart, but I like that he’s funny too, and that he tries to be good even when he messes up. He’s sad but he keeps going.”

 

“Yeah,” I muse, “He does, doesn’t he?”

 

“Captain America is pretty cool too.” Stevie acquiesces, shifting against my side. He yawns, and the movement draws me into my own yawn. “He’s my other favorite, and we have the same name even if it’s spelled differently.”

 

“Steve is wicked cool.” I’d be offended on behalf of Captain America if my little brother didn’t love him. Then again, I adore almost every superhero under the sun.

 

“But Spidey is still your favorite,” he points out, “And you really like that Daredevil guy. You always get smiley when you tell his stories.”

 

I flush, grumbling a bit while Stevie laughs. “Well, he’s just, cool. Ya know? Like - ” I wave my hand in a weird motion, “Just. Awesome.”

 

“Well said.” Stevie says dryly.

 

“I don’t know  _ where  _ you’re getting this attitude from, young man!” I gasp, placing my free hand over my chest like I’ve been scorned. My little brother has learned well under my deadpan humor and blunt words.

 

“Shut up!” he laughs, elbowing me. “I learned it all from you, you’re a bad influence.”

 

“The worst.” I agree, nodding along. The sound of the train muffles our voices, so I’m not worried about the other children being able to hear what we’re talking about. I’m glad, because I don’t want to draw attention to the two of us. I’m too tired and anxious to deal with a bunch of children who aren’t Stevie. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m just an introvert by nature, and the idea of socializing is daunting.

 

It’s dark out when we finally arrive. The faint sunlight that had filtered through the slitted windows replaced by darkness, the only light now coming from flickering bulbs on the train ceiling. We’re ushered off the train and into what passes as a station, and then from there we’re kept in a tight group and pushed through a series of hallways. We’re exhausted, all of us. I can see it in the way every child rubs their eyes and drags their feet. 

 

Even Stevie, who napped on and off for a few hours, is faltering. It’s only my tight grip on his hand that stops him from falling into the crowd of kids.

 

It starts when we arrive in a room with desks and seats and are told to sit down. I lead Stevie over to a desk near the back and shove another against it, plopping down in my own seat. I get a look from one of the weird Doctor people but I could care less, I prefer being as close as possible to my brother. I also kinda hate all the adults here, so I’m taking comfort where I can get it.

 

One by one kids are called forth and taken away. My frown becomes more pronounced as time passes, fear taking hold.  _ What if they separate us? _ I can’t fight them off, not really. The body of a malnourished five year old can only do so much. But to my relief, when the time comes they gesture for the both of us. 

 

We’re put in a room, with another bunk bed and food on a table in the center. The scent of cooked meat hits my nose and my stomach growls with a vengeance - I’ve been so stressed I didn’t even  _ realize  _ that we haven’t eaten all day! Stevie surges forward and stuffs a roll into his mouth, eyes going wide. More than half the food in front of us we’ve never seen before ( at least,  _ Stevie _ hadn’t ). He looks more amazed the more he eats, relishing in the taste of well-made, warm food. I sit down a little more gingerly, eating slowly.

 

“Don’t eat too fast, you’ll get a stomach ache.” I abdomish, leveling Stevie with an unimpressed stare.

 

He swallows, taking a sip of whatever’s in the cup in front of him before responding, “I know, I know. ‘M just so  _ hungry _ !”

 

“Still,” I huff, eyeing the food before us with distrust. They need us alive, so it’d be stupid of them to poison us. But I wouldn’t put  _ drugging  _ past them. Whatever. There isn’t much I could do in a situation like this, and in all honesty I need my strength if I want to protect Stevie. Eating maybe-drugged food will have to do.

 

“I don’t like it either.” he suddenly says, fork clinking against his empty plate. 

 

I glance up at him, sliding an apple slice into my mouth. I haven’t tasted fruit in years. He looks solemn, an odd expression to see on a child’s face. We hold each other’s eyes for a while, before his eyelids droop a bit and a yawn breaks free.

 

“Bed time.” I say, pushing my empty plate away from me and standing up. Stevie copies my actions, his chair scraping on the floor as he pushes away from the table. We clasp hands again on our way to the bunk bed and press together on the bottom mattress like last time. 

 

I’m so exhausted, it takes me moments to sink into a deep sleep.

 

* * *

 

We’re taken for testing the next morning, after breakfast. The food left for us the previous night was gone when we awoke, replaced with fresh foods. I’d missed the taste of oatmeal and sausage, and Stevie took to it with gusto. 

 

A soldier, gun strapped to his thigh, opens our door and leads us to a room with two desks and chairs. There’s a pad on each desk, as well as writing utensils and paper. 

 

_ A test. An honest-to-god test. _ This might actually be hell. Dread fills my stomach at the sight of the digital questionnaire on the pad.  _ I thought I was done with school! _ There was only one, single good thing about the situation I’d found myself in and that was that I didn’t have to go to school because there  _ were _ no schools. But now, I had a feeling that was going to change and that was  _ not _ a happy thought. 

 

_ Ugh. _

 

It was easy, too. Geared for someone more my physical age. I finished quickly, and surprisingly enough so did Stevie. We glanced at each other, feelings of confusion and eagerness spiraling between us.

 

( We passed whatever test they’d made with flying colors. It wasn’t a good thing. )

 

* * *

 

“Your name is Thomas.” 

 

A man with wire-frame glasses and dark hair had come into our room, a clipboard in hand and a dead look in his eye. That was the first thing he said, gaze on my brother. Then he turned to me.

 

“Your name is Edison.”

 

“Uh,” Stevie scrunched his brow, confusion obvious. “My name is Stephen and that’s my brother, Michael. I think you have the wrong people.”

 

“I don’t. We’re giving you new designations.” he says, like he’s talking about the weather, like this madness makes any sense whatsoever.

 

“No.” I glare, setting my jaw. “Absolutely not.”

 

( We last a day. )

 

The next morning a man with an eerie smile comes in and asks us what our names are.

 

“Stephen.” my brother answers, determination in his tiny frame.

 

“Michael.” I answer as well, with the same stubborn tone.

 

“I only need one of you.” he muses, after a pause. His slimy gaze slides from Stevie to me and back again. Something cold slides down my spine. I don’t like the look in his eye.

 

“Take me then.” I blurt out, but I know I’ve made a mistake the second his disgusting countenance hones in on my desperation. He lashes out and takes Stevie’s arm in an iron-grip, dragging my brother from the bed.

 

“Let me go!” he shrieks, writhing in the man’s hold.

 

“Stop it!” I scream, launching myself at him, fingers digging into a meaty arm. I kick and bite and scratch, until the man is roaring and smacks me upside the head so hard I drop to the floor. I can hear Stevie scream my name, but I’m too disoriented to respond. By the time I heave myself off the floor and the room ceases its spinning, I’m the only one in the room.

 

“No, no,” I whimper, feeling the terror between us like poison. I’m off the floor and slamming against the door in seconds, bashing my fists against solid metal. “NO! LET ME OUT!”

 

No one comes.

 

“STEPHEN!” I scream, punching at the door until I’m crying from both terror and pain. I slide down against the door and heave, hands shaking before me, bruised and battered. “Stevie….”

 

There’s a shiver between us, a struggling, surging feeling that has my brow furrowing. I’ve never felt this before, it almost feels like Stevie is trying to close our connection. That terrifies me, because that means they’re doing something he doesn’t want me to feel. He’s not good at it, having never done it before. We’ve never needed to hide anything from each other, I don’t even know if we truly can shut our strange emotional bond off.

 

“Stevie…?” I whisper into the silence, probing at the connection. I’m not prepared for the lance of pain that spikes through me. I cry out, jerking where I sit. “What the - ”

 

It doesn’t stop. The pain burns through me with a vengeance, ripping our bond open and forcing us to share the agony. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts,  _ it hurts! _ I’ve never felt pain like this before, it’s like everything is on fire, like my skin is being flayed open and bones plucked out.

 

_ WHAT ARE THEY DOING?  _ My wrathful outburst echoes deeply through our connection.

 

_ MICHAEL! _ There’s a sob of my name, and it sounds like Stevie. It should be impossible, it  _ is _ impossible. But my name is in my head, and so are Stevie’s cries.  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry. _

 

_ Don’t, _ I project back, ferocious in my rage,  _ it’s them. IT’S THEM! _

 

_ They’re going to keep doing it.  _ He says ( thinks? ),  _ they won’t stop until I accept the name Thomas. _

 

_ It’s just a name, _ I respond quickly, barely feeling the floor beneath my body as I writhe in pain,  _ it doesn’t matter, not really. You’re still you. Please, I can’t protect you. _

 

It feels like a loss. They’re shaping us into something new, forcing our hand when we don’t respond the way they want. It’s just a name, yes, but it’s the name our parents gave us. It’s all we have left that belongs to us, and now we can’t even keep that.

 

The pain stops, but there’s an ache that I can feel in every muscle of my body and mind. I lay gasping on the floor until the door opens, barely able to move my body as Stevie is dragged back inside. I grunt, raising myself to onto my knees as Stevie is dropped besides me. Like beacons, we seek each other, curling our throbbing bodies together and sighing with relief. 

 

“What’s your name?” the bastard hasn’t left, instead he lingers above us, voice serpentine.

 

“Thomas.” Stevie says, his voice a mere croak. 

 

I turn my venomous gaze to the asshole leering down at us, defiance still heavy in my bones. My voice isn’t much better, and it hurts to force the name from my throat. “ _ Eddie. _ ” 

 

They may have forced it upon me, but I  _ would _ make it my own.


	2. Something WICKED This Way Comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight gore warning near the middle of the chapter!

“Good job, Thomas,” Dr. Paige praises, her voice light and silken. “You correctly answered all the questions.”

It’s hard to keep track of time here, as they don’t give us a calendar and all we can trust is their word. We’ve been here for two months, and they haven’t hurt us again. Instead, they’ve set us up with various teachers and doctors to _learn_. Ste- _Thomas_ is still suspicious of WICKED’s motives, but he is young and memories are more fleeting at his age. He’s starting to enjoy it here, learning new things and being praised the better he does. It worries me. They’ve taken into account his eager and curious personality, and I can see the subtle attempts at manipulating him over to their side.

It’s a different story with me. Nothing they could ever do or say will ever get me on their side. The truth of the matter is that they kidnap children from their families, wipe their old lives away, and then repurpose them for experiments. All of this is done without consent from (in most cases) the parents / guardians or kids themselves. I don’t want to be here and I certainly don’t want Stev- _Thomas_ here with them. But they’re not going to let us go. They’re so desperate for a cure they’ve abandoned their basic morals and I can’t trust or forgive them, especially after what they did to St- _Thomas_. Torturing kids? Nothing can excuse that.

They know I don’t trust them. In fact, I’m almost certain the doctors and staff are aware of my intense hatred. They should have thought twice about hurting Stevi- _Thomas_ if they wanted my trust. Because I will never forget and never forgive.

Ava glances over me, offering a kind smile. I know she’s an important figure in WICKED, but I can’t get a read on her. The desire she has to save humanity is genuine, but the extent she’s willing to go to and the methods she’s using make me recoil. It’s one of those greater good scenarios where it’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys - because it would be nice to have a cure. It would be _amazing_ actually, to be able to save our parents and the remainder of the human race from the Flare. But was it worth sacrificing unwilling participants, who were no more than children?

I really didn’t think so.

That doesn’t stop them from trying to change my point of view. The teachers teach us math, english, history and sciences, but they also tell us about the Flare. Over and over, they tell horror stories about what the world has become and how families are being ripped apart by the disease. It’s spun to appeal to the childish desire for our own families - make us sympathetic to the plight we could very well face. I didn’t know how well it was working on the other children, Thomas and I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of anyone below thirty since we first arrived.

“Eddie, your work is impeccable as usual.” she comments, passing by my desk. She’s one of the few who calls me ‘Eddie’, and therefore, one of the few I actually respond to ( despite my distrust of her ). The other adults will learn eventually, because I can be stubborn when I want to be and this is far too important to me to let go.

I nod rather than respond verbally. Thomas is the more extroverted between the two of us, so it’s nothing unusual. We may be identical, but we’re surprisingly easy to tell apart if you observe our mannerisms.

 _What’s next?_ Thomas asks, voice in my head. He twirls his pencil in his fingers and makes no expression to give away that he’s speaking to me telepathically. We decided it would be best to keep it from WICKED, seeing as we didn’t trust what they could potentially do with the information. I had no doubt that they would find out eventually. They frequently check up on us in labs and perform countless tests every week. The amount of brain scans we’ve been through already is startling.

 _More Flare talk, probably._ I respond, slumping in my seat. This is the worst part of the day.

* * *

 

Six months later and we’ve advanced beyond their expectations. Our education picks up, entering levels that I recall being geared towards teenagers rather than six year olds. We’ve been here for eight whole months and our birthday came and went on August 8th. It was nearing October now, and we’ve still only seen adults. I spend countless nights wondering what they’ve done with the other children, but I’m hesitant to ask the Doctors about it. Thomas is not.

“What about the others? Are we gonna see them soon?” he badgers Dr. Morris, the guy who does all our check-ups. “It’s been a long time, ya know. Is everyone separate? Are me and Eddie special?”

That’s another thing, these days, the names flow off our tongues easier. It was hard at first, but Thomas is young and adapts easily. I, as expected, am not as comfortable. Even now I feel bitter about it, sometimes even calling Thomas ‘Stephen’ when it’s the two of us. I don’t want him to forget his real name. ( One day we’ll get outta here and he can be himself again without fear. )

“The other children are fine.” Dr. Morris says, sounding exasperated. He’s used to Thomas’ chattering and curiosity, and he’s definitely nicer about handling it than some of the other adults. “I don’t know when you can see them.”  
He doesn’t answer all the questions and his responses are a bit dodgy, but I’ve lived five years with just Thomas. I’m not particularly bothered about being the only children here. I do hope the other kids aren’t being separated though, because children need social interaction to flourish and Thomas and I are lucky enough to have each other for that.

And even if he doesn’t answer it, I know it to be true. Thomas and I _are_ special. I don’t know what the means quite yet, but I’m not exactly excited to find out. Despite the fact that I hate basically everyone here, I’ve gotten used to the routine of school and doctor visits. I’m not sure how appreciated change would be, especially if it’s _their_ type of change.

“Maybe next time, Thomas.” I murmur, trying to soothe the temper I feel rising within him. He’s still a kid and therefore prone to emotional outbursts. Never at me though, which is odd, seeing as we’re together all the time. I know spending 100% of your time with someone isn’t exactly healthy, and arguments should be expected - but we’d never done so. We truly were two sides of the same coin.

“You said that _last_ time,” he grumbles, but lets it drop. Dr. Morris remains quiet. I know that Thomas will ask again and again, every time we come. The need to _know_ is overwhelming in his mind.

* * *

Time passes quickly, repetitive routine making the days blend together. We grow before WICKED’s eyes and under their careful manipulations. Our 8th birthday passed three months ago, and the both of us have grown a few inches. In total, it’s been three whole years since we were taken. Thomas is still their favorite, and he’s grown used to the faces and the doctors and the words of the people here. He trusts them; far more than I do.

“You’re going to meet someone today.” Dr. Paige says, breaking the quiet of the classroom. Thomas and I look up from our work, glancing at each other before directing identical questioning looks towards her.

“She’s been staying in the room besides you for some time now,” she continues, “Her name is Teresa.”

I’m startled by the idea that someone has been living in the room next to ours for perhaps _years_ without us knowing. Neither Thomas or I had seen any sign of another child the entire time we’d been here. To find out we’d been so close to another all this time? Definitely a little off-putting.

We don’t meet Teresa until later, when we’ve returned to our rooms. She’s led in some minutes after we get back, a soldier shutting the door behind her. She’s about our age, a little taller than the two of us, with inky black hair and bright blue eyes.

  
_She looks like a doll._ I think dryly, glancing at Thomas. He returns my look with a shrug, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 _Are they feeding her?_ His eyebrows draw together, gaze passing over her thin form before turning back to me.

She shifts, hands at her sides awkwardly and observing the two of us cautiously. Our silent communication has not gone unnoticed, and she looks a little out of her depth.

 _Why wouldn’t they be?_ I shoot back, WICKED certainly had enough food. _Maybe she’s just naturally thin._

“I’m Thomas.” he says out loud instead of answering me. He takes a step forward and holds out his hand. No one can say he didn’t learn _any_ manners.

I wonder if Teresa is her real name, or if she’s like Thomas and I. Stripped of our former identities.

“Teresa.” she replies, as though we hadn’t already known. Her pale hand reaches out to shake Thomas’ quickly. Her bright gaze turns to me next, occasionally flicking back to Thomas. I suppose we _are_ an interesting sight. As far as we know, the two of us are the only pair of twins in the facility.

“Eddie.” I grunt, shifting on my feet. Thomas shoots me a look. Reluctantly, I hold out my hand as well. She shakes it and we drop each other’s hands quickly.

“How long have you been here?” Thomas gets right into it, curiosity taking over his wariness at the situation. He gestures at the chairs at the table and she sits, Thomas and I moving back to perch side by side on the bottom bunk.

“Over four years.” she answers.

“Wow, really!?” he looks astounded, brown eyes wide. “We’ve only been here for three. How old are you?”

“I’m eight…” her lips quirk up a little, Thomas’ enthusiasm is contagious. “What about you?”

“We’re eight too!” Thomas claps his hands together, looking delighted by that fact. He turns to me, bright smile on his face. “Isn’t that cool, Eddie? Now we know someone our age!”

“Yeah, I guess.” I shrug, avoiding all eye contact. I have no idea how to react to an unknown factor like this. Social skills have never been my strong point.

“Don’t mind him, he doesn’t like talking that much.” my brother explains airly, waving his hand through the air in a ‘no-matter’ gesture. “Or people in general.”

“He seems to get along with you well, though.” Teresa notes, obviously feeling more comfortable now in the face of Thomas’ friendliness.

He shrugs and, like it explains everything, says, “I’m different.”

It does kinda explain everything.

* * *

 

From then on we see Teresa almost every day, she even joins us in our lessons. It seems the three of us are on the same page education wise. I try not to think about what that means, because we’re WICKED’s favorites for a reason. Teresa tells us that she’s met some of the other kids, but she talks the most about two named Aris and Rachel. Aside from us it’s those two that she spends time with.

It’s not long after she told us about Aris and Rachel that we actually meet them. At this point I’m almost certain that none of their names are their given ones.

Aris is really thin and narrow, all bone and limbs and probably around seven years old. His skin is darker than ours - a pretty olive tone, and his hair is brown. His eyes, like Teresa’s, are blue. Rachel ( who looks around ten ) has deep, chocolate brown skin and tightly curled hair. She eyes us up and down with open curiosity and wariness. I return the sentiment, and she purses her lips but looks accepting. I feel like the two of us have come to some silent understanding.

We’re a lot more stoic while the three others converse eagerly. Aris seems like a good kid, definitely a little shy at the beginning, but so was Teresa.

“Have you met the others yet?” the boy asks, blue eyes gleaming. “There’s two groups being held here.”

“Two?” Thomas questions, eyebrows furrowing. “What’s that mean?”

Rachel answers, “They’ve separated the girls and the boys.”

 _Why would they do that?_ I wonder, narrowing my eyes. Thomas flicks his eyes to me, mentally agreeing that the fact is a curious one.

“No,” he starts, though it seems a bit redundant now, “We haven’t met anyone else. Teresa was the first person our age we’d seen in over three years.”

“You’ll probably meet Group A soon, it’s the boys group.” Teresa muses, knocking her shoulder with Thomas’. They’ve formed an easy friendship that I’m reluctant to approve of. But I don’t wanna come off as jealous or controlling due to my desire to protect him from the world, so I say nothing and hope for the best. “Bet you’ll like that, Tom!”

Thomas beams, looking excited already. “Oh man, I can’t wait! It - It’d be so cool to actually meet new people, ya know? I mean, aside from you guys.”

“Yeah,” I huff, “ _Wonderful._ ”

“Careful now, Ed, don’t get too excited.” Teresa rolls her eyes, used to my attitude after spending weeks with the two of us. My brother mock punches my arm, laughter in his eyes.

“Relax, Eddie!” he puffs out his chest, “I’ll protect you from the big mean boys.”

The others laugh, even Rachel. I pout a little, shoving Thomas gently in mock offence. “Shut _up_! If anyone’s gonna need protectin’, it’s _you_. You’ll get into a fight in the first five minutes with the mouth on you.”

“I will not!” he protests, shoving a finger in my direction. “If anyone’s gonna get into a fight it’s definitely gonna be you!”

The other three makes various sounds of amusement, looking between the two of us. Teresa is shaking her head and rolling her eyes again. Rachel just scoffs.

“Him?” Aris blinks, a disbelieving grin on his face, “No way.”

I wonder if I should be offended.

“Eddie, like…” Teresa ponders, finger tapping her chin, “Would just _avoid_ everyone. Can’t get into a fight if you don’t talk to anyone to begin with.”

* * *

 

We’re introduced to Group A a week later. At first no one notices us, and I assume it’s because they’re all busy running around and talking and wailing on each other like little boys do. They’re also probably used to getting new arrivals as more children are ‘collected’ over time. Thomas looks amazed at the mess of boys before us, he’s never really rough-housed or played so violently before. The two of us were much more prone to reading and drawing together than we were to tumble about on the floor in a mock fight. We stand there awkwardly, hands clasped together for support. I may be the shy one, but a situation like this brings out even Thomas’ social anxiety.

“Hey!” A voice calls, drawing our attention. We turn in sync and the kids approaching starts and goes wide-eyed. He’s asian, with short black hair and a beaming grin that reasserts itself after a moment. “Wow, you’re _identical_!”

That statement draws the gazes of a few other boys, and soon we’re the focus of half the room. Seeing twins is a novelty, and I guess being new in their eyes is more interesting than whatever they were doing before.

“They call me Minho.” he introduces himself, rocking on his heels while eyeing us.

I can’t help but note the way he says that, which just makes me positive it’s not his real name. Thomas beams right back at the friendly boy, squeezing my hand a little.

“I’m Thomas and this is Eddie!”

I turn my gaze from Minho and scan the room. The other boys begin to introduce themselves one by one, eager for a glimpse at our matching faces. I feel a bit like a zoo animal, and step back a little to place Thomas in front of me. In cases like this, I’m not afraid to use him as a shield.

“Alright, quit bloody crowdin’ the newbies!” An accented voice cuts through the din, and a majority of the boys grumble and roll their eyes before moving away. The boy who approaches is about our height, with sandy hair and deep brown eyes. He eyes Thomas and I with a piercing, heavy gaze before turning to Minho. “You’re a right menace, you know that?”

Minho smiles, all cheek and false innocence, “Hey man, I’m telling you - it was Ben.” Obviously referring to an incident that Thomas and I had no knowledge of. All of these boys have _clearly_ known each other for awhile now, each one acting with a level of comfort and ease only gained over time. I grit my teeth and squint my eyes, suspicious thoughts filling my head. Why the hell had WICKED separated us from them? For what purpose? And why let us mingle _now_? I couldn’t help but think that things were going to change soon, and that terrified me.

“Whatever,” the british boy dismisses, turning back to us. “I’m Newt.”

“Thomas - ” my brother says, stumbling over his words in his excitement, “ - your voice is really cool!”

Newt grins a little and it brightens up his face. We’re all children here, but he looks far older than his features. It’s all in his eyes and the way he carries his little body. The smile makes him actually _look_ his age, which can’t be much older than us. I agree with Thomas mentally, Newt’s accent _is_ cool. It’s the first non-american one we’ve heard so far, and english accents have always sounded lovely to me.

“Thanks.” the boy says, voice soft. His gaze moves from Thomas’ exuberant form to my subdued one. I blink as our eyes meet, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks at the attention. Thomas gives my hand a supportive squeeze. I duck my head a little before stepping out from behind Thomas, eyes skittering from Newt’s eyes to the floor and back again.

“I’m Eddie.” I say quietly, proud I didn’t stutter under Newt’s scrutiny. His answering grin is warm, head nodding in greeting.

“Good to meet ya then, Eddie,” a smirk, his dark eyes moving to my brother, “Tommy.”

A giggle escapes before I can cover it up, my lips pursing tightly to hide my grin as I observe Thomas’ scrunched face. He’s trying to decide if he likes the name or not. Teresa calling him ‘Tom’ he can handle, but ‘Tommy’ seems a bit kiddish and Thomas is at that stage where he wants to be taken seriously.

Newt squints at me a little, seeming oddly proud that he’d gotten such a reaction out of me. Thomas shoots me a mock betrayed look.

“That’s cute,” I say. “I like it.”

The look of betrayal remains, and I laugh again.

* * *

 

“I’m surprised,” Thomas comments, drawing the attention of our little group consisting of the two of us, Newt, Minho and a few other boys. We’re all sat around one of the tables spread about the room. “Eddie doesn’t like new people. He’s really shy.”

I look up from where I’m slumped against him, feeling uncomfortable with the fact that everyone’s attention is on me. It’s not that I don’t like new people, it’s just that it’s hard to know if I can _trust_ anyone in this place. And I’m afflicted with painful social anxiety. Simple things like greetings and introductions are just so . . . awkward for me.

“I’ve noticed you do most of the talkin’.” Minho says, tone unaccusing. I like him.

“Yeah, well.” Thomas shrugs. “I always know what he’s thinking anyway.”

I huff out a breath of laughter, they don’t know the half of it.

“But he actually introduced himself to Newt, which was - it was pretty big. At least I think it was.” My brother glances down at me, looking a little proud. I almost feel like the younger brother in this situation, with Thomas looking out for me.

 _Newt … is quieter._ I think to him, _Kinder. Easier to talk to._

 _Unthreatening, you mean._ Thomas gives me an amused look. _You always shy away from big personalities._

 _Just at first!_ I complain - after all, I like Minho well enough. He’s right though, Newt has a pretty severe case of baby face despite being a little older than us, and his voice is soft and kind. I’m not worried about being subject to overwhelming attention while around him, I’ve learned _that_ much in the few hours we’ve been here.

“Whoa.” Minho breaks our staring contest. “You guys like, actually do that twin thing, huh?”

“What twin thing?” Thomas questions, blinking in bewilderment.

“You know the, uh - what’s it called . . . twin speak? Twin talk?” Minho shrugs and waves his hand in a ‘so-so’ motion. “Something like that. But what I mean is that you guys like, have super twin powers of communication. I heard that was a thing,” he pauses, “Somewhere. I dunno. I’ve never actually met any twins before. I think it was in a book.”

“Oh, yeah.” Thomas nods. I glance at him sharply. “We’re like, two halves, ya know? I don’t go anywhere without Eddie.”

I relax a little. I’d actually been worried that Thomas would let something about our telepathy slip. It’s not that I didn’t trust Minho and the other boys ( I mean, I didn’t _really_ trust them yet ) but I couldn’t be sure who was listening in on us. There were cameras everywhere, I was sure of it.

“All we had was each other, and our parents, for a long time.” I butt in, shrinking a little when everyone turns to the sound of my quiet voice. “I dunno how to live without . . . Tommy.”

I punctuate the nickname with a smirk, _feeling_ Thomas’ sigh through our bond.

“Is that gonna be a thing now?” he complains, nudging my side.

“Oh, totally.” I nod, catching Newt’s eye and smiling widely. The blonde boy returns it, his own smile far more mischievous than mine.

“It suits ya,” he adds, nodding at Thomas.

My brother wrinkles his nose like he’s smelt something sour. “Nicknames suit Eddie, he’s - he’s the cute one.”

“You’re completely correct, I _am_ the cute one. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a nickname.” I laugh, poking his side. “After all, I’ve been told we look quite similar, so you must be pretty decent yourself.”

Minho’s laugh is loud and draws eyes, but I can’t bring myself to care. The atmosphere is far more comfortable now, and most of them only glance at his jubilant form before turning back to their things.

“Is Eddie short for Edward?” Newt asks, his question directed at me ( I know because he’s looking at _me_ , when I’m so used to Thomas directing all conversation while I fade into the background ). Thomas and Minho are bickering lightheartedly back and forth, leaving Newt and I to our own conversation.

“No.” I almost stop there, but decide it doesn’t matter, as I’ll never respond to anything but Eddie no matter _who_ knows what my official ‘name’ is. “Edison.”

“Thomas...Edison.” he draws out our names, tone dry and a single eyebrow rising in disbelief.

“Yeah, they’re not very original, huh?” I’m still bitter and it probably shows in my tone and on my face. “I guess it makes sense, seeing as we’re twins. Thought it’d be funny, I’m sure. You’re, uh, Isaac Newton, right?”

Newt’s mouth quirks a little, fingers tapping on the table almost silently. “Yeah. It’s kind of a theme, I guess.”

I scoot a little closer to Newt, leaning my head across the table, suddenly desperate to _know_ if he felt the same way I did about our names being taken. “Does it bother you?”

He’s silent for a moment, studying his hands. Then his chocolate gaze moves to meet my eyes, something indescribable there. “Yes.”

I act on my impulse, speaking a little more childishly and dropping down to a whisper, “Can you keep a secret?”

Newt leans forward as well, pushing our faces closer together. “I’ll never breathe a word.”

“My name was Michael, and I hate that they took it from me.” It spills out, like tearing a thorn from my skin, the wound suddenly exposed to air. Over three years and I’m _still_ bitter and angry and weary and it’s not leaving anytime soon. Our situation is unjust and I will stick by that opinion until my dying day.

“Samuel.” Newt blurts out, our eyes still locked, anxious nerves vibrating between us. It’s obvious that mention of our lives before WICKED is rarely spoke aloud, perhaps out of fear. His accent is thicker as it hits the air between us, a combination of keeping his voice quiet and the stress of the situation. “I used to be Samuel, and I have a sister named Lizzy. They took her too, but they don’t let us see each other.”

“ _What!?_ ” I hiss between us, suddenly feeling a million times more furious at WICKED than I was just seconds ago. “How could they do that! I can’t imagine - ”

I couldn’t imagine being taken away from Thomas. Newt had been here for at least two years. That was two years without his sister, his _family_. And she was so close. How can WICKED _do_ that!? It sickens me. Something makes Thomas and I special enough not to separate, and I doubt it’s just because we’re the same gender.

“Yeah, it bloody sucks.” he hushes me, eyes holding no maliciousness despite the difference in our situations. “But Minho and I, we found ways to sneak around. I visit her sometimes, only to watch. There’s cameras in their rooms so I can’t - can’t say hello to her without worryin’ that _they’ll_ see it.”

“That’s so - ” I cut off, lips trembling as my anger at the injustice of it all hits me. I’ve never dealt with emotions well, whenever I get overwhelmed I start crying ( which I hate ). The very last thing I wanna do is break down here because I got angry enough to start blubbering. I couldn’t deal with the attention and potential humiliation.

Thomas’ hand suddenly finds my own, his presence leaning into my side and his mind brushing my own. He is a comfort that I embrace wholey, sinking against him.

“What’re you talking about?” he asks, concerned as I use one of my hands to scrub angrily at my eyes. No tears fell, but my eyes feel a little wet, lashes clumped together. I glance at Newt, questioning him silently. It’s not my place to tell Thomas information about Newt unless I get permission.

“I was tellin’ Eddie about my sister.” Newt answers easily, no judgement in his gaze at my emotional reaction. “She’s here with WICKED but they won’t let us see each other.”

“Oh,” Thomas breathes, gazing at me. We look at each other for a while, both grateful and enraged. The idea of being separated from a sibling is almost unnatural.

 _I told you we can’t trust them._ I’ve never been snippy at Thomas before, but this just takes the cake. The fact that WICKED thought it was okay to split families apart even more than they already had….!

 _...I know,_ Thomas sighs mentally, _I just thought that maybe...maybe what they’re doing is right, ya know? Finding a cure for the Flare - and they haven’t…._

 _Haven’t what?_ If thoughts could possibly sound deadpan, mine certainly did in that moment. _Hurt us? Don’t you remember our second day here, what they did to us? To you? They aren’t our friends, Stevie. They’ll do whatever it takes to control us while putting up a front of kindness._

 _But a cure,_ _Mikey._ Thomas marvels. It’s a dream, a desire we both share. It’s not like I don’t want to find a cure, but the way they were going about it was all sorts of wrong.

 _Is it worth it?_ I shoot back, not budging on my stance. _Is it worth harming a whole generation of children who can survive the Flare...without their consent? Very few of these kids asked for this, Stevie. If we were given a choice to volunteer then maybe I’d feel better about it, but we weren’t. They broke into our home and stole us away, they harmed us when we refused to cooperate and they treat us like experiments rather than children._

Thomas sighs audibly, and Newt scrutinizes us with interest. We’d been silent for a few minutes, shooting looks and making minute expressions at each other.

“Huh.” He looks like he’s discovered something interesting. “Minho _was_ right.”

“I always am,” the boy in mention cuts in, arms splayed across the table. “But what exactly am I right about?”

Newt snorts, “The ‘twin-talk’ you bloody tool.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, it’s cool isn’t it?” Minho nods sagely. “I wish I had a twin.”

* * *

 

We don’t see Group A for a long time after that. I can’t help but wonder if our visitation was just a trial run of some sort, to see if we could get along with a large group of ‘subjects’ our age. It sounds silly, but I actually miss them despite only spending a total of five hours with them. I found the boys better company than Teresa, if anything. Thomas has taken to her like a fish out of water and they seem almost inseparable. I’m not jealous, per se, but I’m certainly not happy about it. Teresa operates with a startling amount of drive, she’s completely convinced that everything they’re doing is for the greater good. A cure is all that matters, even if we have to die for it. I feel like something in her past is what made her this way, because she’s so desperate for it that it’s _scary_.

Rachel is a little more on my level. She doesn’t like the idea of sacrificing others, no matter the purpose. We get along the best. Aris is middle ground, he seems resigned to our purpose here, like his will to resist has been broken in him already. He doesn’t offer an opinion, just does what they tell him to do. I think it’s partially out of fear of what they will do to him if he refuses.

I haven’t seen Newt in well over a year, but I still think about him and his sister, Lizzie. To me, it’s just another reason to hate this place. I’d been trusted with his original name and I could only do my best by remembering it. _Samuel_. It suited him. But then again, so did Newt, in a way. I’m sure I’d recognize him, and Minho, if I saw them again, but their faces have all but faded from my mind.

Thomas and I are turning ten soon. We’ve been here for almost five whole years now, and lately the doctors have been more restless than usual. Something is about to change, I can almost taste it in the air.

“Eddie, we’d like you to come with us.” A woman stops by our classroom, silencing the quiet chatter between Thomas and our three companions. Their gazes flit to me, Thomas tense and anxious, the others merely curious. I stand. What other choice do I have? I’d rather them take me than Thomas.

 _Mikey…_ Thomas’ voice rings in my head, his big brown eyes piercing into my back as I walk away from the table.

_Don’t worry, Stevie. It’ll be fine._

I’m lying and he knows it, but it’s all I can offer as comfort.

They take me to a small, concrete and steel room with a single table in the center and a big mirror on one of the walls. _Double-sided,_ I think, _like in police stations._ The room is lit with a sharp blueish light, making it feel cold and small. I sit down on the offered chair, elbows propped up on the shiny metal table. Is this an interrogation? Or a torture session? I feel like I’m about to vibrate out of my skin with nerves, and Thomas’ potent anxiety is doing nothing to help my own.

And they leave me to sit there for at least fifteen minutes, only heightening my stress.

Finally, the door opens again, and this time a man steps through. He’s clad in a black, military esque suit, a gun strapped to his thigh and another in his hand. It makes a loud clunk when he sets it down before me and my ears ring. He drops down heavily into the seat opposite me.

“Lesson one,” he begins, voice gruff and matching his sharp, worn features. “Firearms.”

What for? I think but don’t verbalize, too terrified to make a sound. I feel weak, letting my fear get the best of me. But I’ve never touched a gun before and the implications behind my need to be trained with one make me break into a cold sweat. For all I knew, it could be merely for my own protection. The Scorch was a dangerous place after all; teeming with cranks and scavengers willing to kill to survive. But then why weren’t the others being trained as well? There was no need to separate us if we were to be learning the same things.

_What is WICKED up to?_

And why train me, if I was to be the only one? They knew that I was the least trusting of the group, and had no allusions to my dislike of the entire system. Weren’t they scared I’d use their own weapons against them to escape?

But, with chilling clarity, I realized they have Thomas. Through him they could make me do whatever they wanted, because I would do _anything_ for him and they knew it. They were _counting_ on it.

I picked up the gun.

* * *

 

That first day I didn’t fire the gun, only learned how it worked. I was shown how to disassemble and assemble it, load it and even how to clean it properly. They were obviously taking my ‘training’ very seriously.

In the beginning, I tried to hide it from Thomas, because I myself was confused and scared and I didn’t want to include him in my wash of negative emotions. But we’re far too close for secrets, and I’ve never kept one from him before so it wasn’t long before I cracked. He’s pretty persistent, especially when he can nag both verbally and mentally. They didn’t tell me to keep it from Thomas anyway, so in the end I don’t feel bad about telling him. He’s worried, of course, because he realizes that they’re pushing us to do separate things for the very first time and that is new. Being apart is unknown territory for us and we don’t particularly like it. There’s almost a hum, or a sense of completeness when we’re together. Being apart leaves us with a sense of _loss_ , like we’re missing a piece of ourselves. It’s hard to put into terms - indescribable, really.

I didn’t fire the gun for three whole lessons, not until they were confident I could load it properly. The gun was heavy, it strained my hands to keep it up. Weapons like this were not meant for children, yet here I was.

On the fourth lesson, they handed me a disassembled gun and shoved me into a wide, open room. My only instructions were to assemble, load and _shoot_. I set to work doing the first part, glancing up occasionally at the white, _white_ room. It was so bright in here it almost hurt to look at. The walls and ceiling and floor all the same glowing shade of _nothing_. A door at the other end of the room slid open suddenly. I jerked, surprised at the motion as I hadn’t even seen creases in the wall for a door.

 _Are the targets coming through there?_ I thought, bewildered. I’d been expecting those cardboard cut-out shapes you see at shooting ranges.

That’s not what I got.

A low, moaning sound echoed from within the darkness of the new open space. It made my blood turn to ice. I recognized that sound. I’d fallen asleep with it in my ears for five years, shrunk away from windows when the groaning turned to screaming.

A _Crank_.

My mouth went dry as shuffling and the rattling of chains hit my ears. When the creature came into the lit room, my stomach dropped to my feet. Yellow, blackened skin clung to their skeletal frame. What remained of tattered clothing hung from their limbs, faded and singed. Deep, pulsing lines of black trailed all over visible skin and deep, viscous liquid dripped from shredded lips. I’ve never been more terrified in my life.

The Crank turned its oozing, decaying head in my direction. I didn’t know how they operated - whether they sensed people by sight or smell or whatever - but it knew I was in the room. I looked into its veiny, bloodshot gaze and couldn’t see anything. Just dark, spidery pools of heat. There was rage within, so potent it made me step back in utter shock. That thing wasn’t human anymore.

A guttural, clicking growl tore from its mouth, working its way into a scream. The Crank lunged for me with skinny, sore-covered arms flailing. I screamed, recoiling even further and fumbling with the gun in my hands. I didn’t want to shoot it, despite the horror coursing through me. My hands shook as the chains on its waist pulled taught, grasping hands just inches from my form pressed against the wall. My chest heaved as blackened foam spilled and sprayed from the Crank’s roaring mouth. Disgust and terror warred with each other, viscous and numb in my head.

_MICHAEL!_

I jolted, tearing my gaze from the Crank’s gnashing teeth and too-close hands. The chains rattled and groaned under the brutal force of its lunging and straining. Thomas’ voice was filled with more worry and fear than I’d ever heard before, even more than that day we were forced to change names. My emotions must have been leaking through our bond. In a way I wasn’t surprised, the force of my emotions startled even me.

_Mikey, please!_

I needed to be strong. The world out there was filled with Cranks. I couldn’t bear the idea of losing _my brother_ because of my own fear. I settled my shoulders, jaw clenching as I raised my gun with trembling hands. It was still too heavy. Thomas screamed in my mind, no doubt causing a scene on his end and drawing more attention to our bond. But none of that mattered now. They already knew I’d do anything for Thomas, even this. This body of mine is only ten years old. My mind may be older but pulling the trigger on someone, on _anything_ , is always scarring no matter your age.

I pull the trigger.

The recoil sends me back into the wall, my arm exploding with pain for a split-second at the force of it, pins and needles trailing up and down it. The bullet tears through the Crank’s skull, shattering its head and sending chunks of flesh and bone and _decayed grey matter_ everywhere. Thick black blood splatters across my clothes and skin. I can feel it on my head and on my cheeks, and the urge to vomit overtakes me. It reeks like death and rot and gunpowder and I lose whatever food sat in my stomach at the mere glimpse of the carnage. The vomit makes my eyes water and my throat burn, and I lay there dry heaving as I’m overloaded with disgust. There’s blackness beneath my hands and dripping down my forehead and staining my skin.

Sobs tear from my chest, and I cry for the first time in a long time.

* * *

 

I don’t remember exactly what happened after that. I barely recall being led from the room by a man - though whether it was my firearms teacher or not I couldn’t tell you. Everything was blurry, like I was trapped underwater and looking up at the surface. I felt utterly numb, only knowing I was alive and breathing because in the place of my lost feelings, Thomas’ flooded my body. They weren’t pleasant emotions - terror and worry and rage - but they were something.

They left me in the bathroom, a clean change of clothes on the bench. I didn’t even remember getting back to the room Thomas and I shared. For a long moment, I stared uncomprehendingly at the walls around me, glancing from my clothes to the towel hanging up to the shower stall - knowing what I had to do but finding the mere act of going through the motions impossible. I wanted the gore and blood off of me as soon as possible, but I couldn’t stop my body from shaking with the remnants of adrenaline and unadulterated terror.

“ _Eddie_!”

That voice wasn’t in my head. I turned towards the open bathroom door, expression blank and eyes hazy. Thomas stood there, his own countenance a mixture of relief and utter despair. He looked like an angel, clad in light gray and skin clean and clear, hands untainted. We were mirror images, but this time it was more like a painting depicting heaven and hell. Two sides of the same coin, yet completely different.

He stepped towards me quickly, and if it were anyone else I might’ve jerked away due to the now ingrained memory of the Crank moving so doggedly towards me. I wanted to tell him to leave, to close the door behind him and let me do this myself; he was too pure to touch my tarnished form. I didn’t want to see that blackened blood on his hands as he wiped it from my own.

I let him pull me into the shower instead, and he cleans me so carefully and thoroughly that my skin is red from scrubbing. It’s like he can’t take the sight of the gore on my flesh and in my hair, and I feel quietly similarly. I don’t want it there, and if our situations were reversed I’d be trying my best to scrub it off of him too. He finishes washing my hair and turns the shower off before grabbing the towel left out on the hanger. I can feel the concern and deep, familial love soaring through our connection and it makes the world a little less shaky.

It’s not until we reach the bed, fully dried and dressed, that I break down and cry once again. This time my sobs are quieter than they were after I’d fired the gun, more mournful than violent, ugly sounds. Thomas held me close and ran his hand through my hair until I fell into an uneasy sleep, only speaking with soft, kind tones despite the layer of rage I could feel boiling under it all.

I dream of black eyes and clicking teeth.

* * *

 

I don’t sleep well for the entire week after the incident. Thomas looks no better, the both us sporting deep bags under our eyes like bruises. I tell him to take the top bunk for once and try and get some uninterrupted sleep but he ignores me. I don’t tell him that I’m grateful for his presence every time I wake from a nightmare, but I think he knows it anyway and that’s why he stays with me.

We don’t go to our regular classroom today. Instead we’re led through the halls until we stop outside a door to a wing that feels vaguely familiar. When it slides open I suddenly realize where we are. With Group A again. It’s been two whole years since we’ve seen the other boys, we’re ten now instead of eight, a little taller and a lot more guarded. The room is just as I’d remembered it, wide open like a common area with tables and chairs all around. Boys chase each other and play wrestle, some sat at the tables or on the floor talking or scribbling on paper. There’s a hallway at the other end that I assume leads to their bunks. Everything is exactly the same, except not.

“Holy crap!”

Thomas and I turn to the voice, the door sliding shut behind us and leaving us in the room with the Group A boys. It’s Minho, and as I thought I would, I recognized him immediately despite having lost memory of many of his features.

“It’s you guys again!” He exclaims, jogging up to us and skidding to a stop. “Man, it’s been like, forever! I didn’t think we were ever gonna see you dorks back here!”

“We weren't expecting it either,” Thomas replies, voice a little faint. He tries to offer Minho a smile in return but it looks more like a grimace. I remain stoic at his side, exhausted beyond measure. These games WICKED is playing with us no longer make sense. I can’t wrap my head around it anymore.

Minho notices, squinting as he observes our sickly appearances. “You guys look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Thomas says dryly, his hand slipping into my own. My head nods a bit, sleep pulling at my eyes.

“No, really…” Minho frowns, eyes shifting to glance around us before leaning in. “Are you guys okay?” There’s nothing but sincerity in his tone, gentle concern for two boys he’d known for a handful of hours two years ago. It warms my heart to see that he still finds it in himself to care about us. ( We’re all in this together, after all. )

“No.” It’s me who responds, drawing Minho’s attention and making Thomas blink in surprise. “But we’re getting there, I think.”

He doesn’t ask if it was WICKED, because that much is obvious. What else could it be? Instead he offers a smile and nod, something gentle in the motion. He doesn’t look at us like we’re glass under threat of shattering, which I appreciate more than he knows.

“Well, are you up for seeing the others?” He asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards a table. I recognize a mop a messy, honey-blonde hair; Newt and a few other boys are seated there. “We have some new kids too, but you don’t have to say ‘hi’ if you don’t want to.”

 _I like him._ I repeat my original thoughts on Minho. Two years and he’s still like this, still kind and unbroken by WICKED. I could see myself trusting him one day, and I’m surprised at how desperately I truly _want_ to.

Thomas meets my eyes, eyebrow raised in silent question. I can tell he wants to make the most of his time here, considering these kids his friends despite the little time we spent with them.

“Yeah, sure.” my brother shrugs, because even _I_ want this distraction. The company isn’t so bad either, a lot better than the usual group we’re saddled with. Minho beams and smacks a hand on Thomas’ shoulder before leading the way over. My twin keeps pace with the chipper boy and I trail a little behind them, my hand still intertwined with Thomas’.

When we reach the table we slip quietly into two of the open seats, Minho going around to sit on the opposite side next to Newt.

“Look who it is!” Minho waves a hand at us, smug. “The wonder twins have returned!”

There’s a bit of a commotion as many of the boys speak at once, asking about where we’ve been. Alby, a boy with dark skin and closely cropped hair, snaps out a “Shut it!” And the other boys quiet down with some grumbling.

“We thought we’d seen the last of you two after the months started passing,” it’s Newt who speaks up, his accent just as English as I’d remembered it. I hope it never fades, like some accents tend to do when you’re young and away from your country of origin.

“Can’t get rid of us that easy,” Thomas jokes, looking lighter already. He still looks tired, purple smudges under his eyes and skin a few shades paler than usual. I’m worse off, with bloodshot eyes and faint scratches on my arms and face. I’d done it to myself in my sleep, waking from nightmares where black vines crawled under my skin only to find that I’d tried to dig them out of my body while unconscious.

“Eddie.” Newt nods in greeting, his deep brown eyes tracing the cuts on my flesh. When our eyes meet I can see the subtle line of tension in his jaw. The boy really is too kind for his own good, worrying about others so much. It’s the price of being a big brother, I suppose.

“Newt.” I actually manage to give him a grin, weak as it is. Tired as I am, I feel incredibly content despite our circumstances. I feel safe with these boys who haven’t learned how to hide their thoughts and emotions just yet, who don’t hurt us or keep secrets. They are innocent and trying their best to make the most of what they have. I wish, desperately, that Thomas and I will be allowed to stay with them.

Thomas relaxes further by my side as the hours pass, falling into an easy camaraderie with the other boys. Soon he’s joking around and knocking shoulders, getting dragged into games and running around. He looks happy. He looks like the kid he’s meant to be and I ache for our lost childhood, his more specifically.

Newt is more reserved, laughing from his new position next to me as Thomas, Minho and Ben trip over each other. Zart joins in after a while and after him come some other boys. I don’t know all their names and I don’t think I have the mental capacity to try to learn them in this moment. But I’m content, sitting here beside the blonde boy and feeling the combined force of Thomas and I’s happiness in my chest.

“Have you seen Lizzie recently?” I whisper, not looking at Newt as I talk. I feel awkward asking and wonder if I’m overstepping my boundaries. I’d like to think it’s a topic we can speak about, seeing as he’d let me in on it, but in truth I didn’t know Newt that well at all.

He’s quiet for a moment, showing no outward reaction. I almost think he’d chosen to ignore me when he finally opens his mouth, “...yeah. Checked in on her a few days ago.” his lips thin and quirk up in a humorless smile. “They call her ‘Sonya’ now.”

“Sonya.” I test the name on my tongue, pursing my lips. “It’s a pretty name, but…”  
Newt nods beside me, understanding - _agreeing_. It’s a nice enough name, but it’s not really _hers_. I look down at my hands, fiddling around with my fingers.

“...can you...tell me about her?” I ask shyly, once again wondering if I’m going too far. Relief courses through me when instead of a reprimand I get a brilliant grin. There’s a soft look in Newt’s eye that I know is specifically reserved for his sister.

“She’s two years younger than me, so she’s...bloody hell, eight years old now.” He slumps back against his chair, eyes distant as he reminisces. “She used to be a tiny little thing - not that she isn’t still small, mind you, but she’s a lot taller now. Growing like a weed, she is.”

A grin comes to my face, unbidden. Newt sounds so much happier, talking about his sister. I wonder if they have parents waiting for them. I wonder how they ended up here. My mouth stays shut. Those are questions better left unasked.

“I can’t hear her voice through the windows very well so I — ” he swallows, something bittersweet in his expression, “ — I don’t know how much of her accent she’s retained. She’s so young so I worry….It’s something that doesn’t really matter, honestly, but I feel like it’s just another part of us that WICKED is trying to take.”

“Yeah.” I agree quietly, understanding the desire to hold on to pieces of yourself from _before_. “But listening to you, I don’t think that accent is going anywhere. You’re old enough that it should stick, probably.” It’s still as thick and melodious as before, I’m pleased to note. Newt’s soft drawl is nothing if not soothing. “Plus, it’d be a damn shame if it did fade — I think you sound lovely! I’d listen to you talk for hours if I could.”

Newt makes a grunting, cut-off noise that draws my attention. I raise my amber eyes to his, only to see that he’s avoiding eye contact, a bashful look on his reddening face. Is he... _embarrassed_?

“Are you _blushing_?” My mouth drops into what’s probably an unattractive gape, humor burning deep within me.

“Shut up, you twat!” He moans, hand knocking against my shoulder and shoving lightly. The red stands out stark against his pale skin. He covers half his face with one hand, leveling a glare with no real heat behind it in my direction.

“You’re not good at taking compliments, are you?” I muse, still not even bothering to hide my amusement. “Relax, it’s _adorable_.”

Newt groans again, but he’s chuckling a little too, hand dropping from his face and looking more at ease. “When Tommy said you got more open the longer you hung around, half of us didn’t bloody believe him. But I guess it really was true, if you’re teasing me now.”

“I like...getting to know people first. I’m more comfortable the longer I spend around them.” Shrugging my shoulders I turn back to where my brother is laughing his ass off at Ben and Minho wrestling on the floor. “You make it easier, I think.”

You didn’t see me laughing and teasing with anyone else after all! Well, maybe aside from Minho. But he was impossible not to like. Usually it took awhile for me to warm up to a person. I barely said a word to Teresa for weeks, speaking as little as possible. The same happened with Aris and Rachel. I don’t know why it took me so long — I suppose that was just how it had always been. I was still pretty quiet even now, never as boisterous or attention-grabbing as Thomas.

“Why?” Newt looks genuinely curious. _Bad with compliments,_ I recall.

“You’re...easy to be around. We don’t have to talk to feel comfortable, and being silent isn’t awkward. I dunno.” I shrug, I can’t explain it myself. We just click, two muted personalities meshing together. We have more in common than we both realize. “You’re easy to like.”

Newt hums. He has that bashful look on his face again, but his cheeks don’t burn as red as before. It’s obvious from the way he bites his lip and turns his eyes away that he doesn’t know how to respond. I understand what he’s feeling almost painfully. My first instinct when someone compliments me is to try and counter it with some sort of proof that it’s _false_.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” He finally finds his voice, glancing over at me with a sly expression. “Once you get past the prickly bits.”

“Hey!” I let out a startled laugh, “I’m not prickly!”

Newt pinches his thumb and forefinger together, “You’re a _little_ prickly. Like a hedgehog.”

“Oh, well — ” I grin, “ — I’m alright with being a hedgehog. They’re cute.”

“I know.” He says, deadpan, “That’s how I tell you and Thomas apart. You’re the cute one.”

I burst out laughing, clasping my hands over my mouth to stifle the noise. The words are an echo of what I said jokingly during our first meeting, and it warms me a little to know he remembers it. Newt watches me with a look I can’t describe, breaking out into chuckles of his own until we’re giggling like loons.

“Jeez, what’s so funny?” Thomas interrupts, eyebrows drawn and glancing between the two of us in a bewildered manner. Newt looks from him to me once before bursting into a new wave of laughter. Thomas looks like a kicked puppy, mulish and feeling left out. I can feel the conflicting emotions within him.

“I’m allowed to laugh, Tommy.” I tease.

“I know that! I just...you’ve never laughed like that with anyone else.” _Except me._ He pouts a little, before the look softens. He’s happy I’m making friends, really. But when it comes down to it I’ve always given him 100% of my attention and he’s not used to suddenly sharing it. I’ve never minded the idea of _him_ making friends, so perhaps it’s a little hypocritical from his end — but we’re different in the way that I’ve never _needed_ friends the way Thomas has.

 _I’m not replacing you with Newt, Stevie._ _You’d be stupid to think so._ I roll my eyes. Thomas was my brother, no one would ever be as important as him. But Newt could be a friend, and with the way things were I might really need one.

 _No, I know. It’s fine._ He’s quick to reassure, hand reaching out to clap Newt’s shoulder.

“I’m trusting you with him,” he says solemnly, looking very serious despite the light teasing in his tone.

Newt looks both confused and amused, an exasperated smile on his face. He nods in mock seriousness to humor Thomas, “I’ll be sure to protect him with my life.”

Thomas softens a little, knowing that they’re only joking but appreciating the words all the same. “Thanks, Newt.”

“Ugh, I’m the big brother here, Tommy.” I butt in, smacking his arm gently. “Quit being a mother hen and go back to your friends.”

“Yeah, Yeah,” he shoves back, happiness returning to his face as he backs away and waves a finger at us in no-nonsense manner. “No funny business!”

“Shove it, Tommy!” I lash a leg out at him and he bounces away laughing, shoving his way back into the group of boys. Newt knocks my shoulder gently with his and I turn to face him.

“What was that about?” He asks, more curious than anything. It was obvious something had transpired between my twin and I that he hadn’t been privy to.

“He was...jealous. I think that’s the best way to describe it. Sorta.” I bite my lip, glancing over at my twin, who is now playing some form of tag and dodging Minho’s quick hands. “Like I’ve said, we really only had each other for a while. Thomas has always taken priority over everyone else for me and I’ve not tried to hide that. I think seeing that my attention is on someone else was just a bit — disconcerting.”

“Ah,” Newt hums, “Well, it seems I got his blessing in the end, yeah?”

“Ha!” I chortle, “You’d think he was giving me away for marriage, the dork. He’s always been protective, but I’m the same way. We look out for each other—I’m sure you feel something similar with Lizzie, even if you can’t see her often. I think it’s just a sibling thing, ya know? Especially in a place like this.”

Newt wrinkles his nose, “We’re too young to be married.”

“Is that all you got outta that?” Honestly, the minds of ten year olds baffle me.

* * *

 

We weren’t taken back to our dorm that night. The lights dim and bedtime is signaled, the boys trudging down the hallway to their bunks. Thomas and I pause, wondering exactly what we’re supposed to do. The door to the other wing hasn’t opened again, and no one has come for us. It looks like we’re spending the night with Group A. I wonder if this is some kind of reward for us — for what I did. My training has been successful in their eyes, they’ve told me so. I learn at an accelerated rate compared to the normal ten year old, which is likely the reason I’m the one being trained. I’ve always acted more mature for my age, perhaps they think they can trust me with weapons more than Thomas.

But rewards from WICKED don’t last. How long will we be allowed to remain here? I don’t want to wait another two years to see Newt and the others again.

“Hey man, you can bunk with us. There aren’t any extra beds, because they always just add them as we get new kids, but we can make do.” Minho offers Thomas, before looking over at me. “You too, if you want. I’m sure you’d rather be together.”

“You know us so _well_ already,” I tease, and Minho cracks a smile.

“What can I say, I’m a genius when it comes to people!” he exclaims smugly, making his way to the dorm rooms with the crowd of Group A boys. Thomas and I follow behind him, our hands finding each other’s and intertwining.

“Yeah,” I murmur, not unkindly, “you’re a real extrovert.” Some days I wish I could be more like Minho, or even Thomas. While not as loud and confident as Minho, Thomas was definitely still more talkative and willful than I was.

Minho leads us to his dorm, it’s a little bigger than ours because it’s fitting four boys instead of two. Tonight it’s a little clustered with the six of us. Alby and a kid I hadn’t met named Nick have one of the bunks claimed, Alby already under the covers of the bottom bunk. The other bunk is Minho and Newt’s, the former already moving up the ladder to the top. Newt squints at Minho for a second before sighing and turning to the two of us.

“I’ll crash with Minho tonight, you two can take my bunk.” He finally says, moving to make his way up the ladder after Minho. Then, obviously addressing the Korean boy, “And I’ll hear no complaining from you! Shove over!”

I glance at Thomas before settling awkwardly on Newt’s bed. My twin follows suit, pulling up the covers and letting me slide under before him. We curl up together, on our sides with our faces turned towards each other. Our hands stay connected, Thomas showing his unwavering silent support. He knows I’m worried about having a nightmare. Having them in the privacy of our room was one thing, but in the presence of four other boys? I doubt they’d be mean about it but the idea made me burn with shame.

 _Stop it,_ Thomas scolds, tightening his hold on my hands. _There’s nothing to worry about. And if something happens and one of them is dumb enough to say somethin’ mean then I’ll punch ‘em._

 _My hero._ My response is dry, but wavers with hidden worries. I just don’t want them to see me at my worst — I don’t want to be looked at like I’m something strange or broken. I stay awake long after Thomas has fallen asleep.


	3. More Than You Could Ever Imagine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if there's a lot of breaks / the story seems to skip around a lot! Most of the time the spend at WICKED is repetitive routine so I skip through the years and focus on important bits. Plus, nothing TRULY happens until we get to the Maze!

_ Michael! _

 

Thomas’ voice in my head jolts me into awareness. I search through the dark with bleary eyes, frantic and startled. My chest heaves and my limbs jerk with the remnants of phantom motion. There’s still screaming in my head, fading the more awake I get, paired with the image of black gore. Thomas clutches my shaking form to him, arms wound tightly around me in desperate comfort. 

 

_ Did I wake anyone?  _ I exhale harshly, trying to even my breaths. 

 

_ I don’t know,  _ Thomas shakes his head minutely, a movement I feel more than see.  _ You didn’t make much noise, just kinda flailed a bit. I’m not sure if any of them are light sleepers though...it wasn’t soundless, even if it wasn’t bad. _

 

_ Well if they did wake, at least they’re being nice about it. _ I grumble. There’s no sound aside from our breathing. I think Nick is faintly snoring, but I can’t be sure it’s him. Either way, none of the boys make it known that they witnessed my episode, so I relax. They  _ could  _ all be awake, but as long is I could pretend none of them  _ were _ I could face them in the morning.

 

Sighing, I sit up, pulling myself from Thomas’ grasp. “Bathroom.” I mumble to him, slipping out of the bed and padding across the floor. The boys’ bathroom was bigger than the one in Thomas and I’s room, resembling a communal shower. There were two bathroom stalls, two shower stalls and two sinks. I made sure to close the door behind me a bit before turning on the light, squinting against the brightness. 

 

At the sink, I peer into the mirror at my reflection. Sweat had plastered my hair to my head and my shirt to my chest. The skin around my eyes was red and puffy due to lack of sleep, the purplish bags underneath looking even more pronounced than usual. There weren’t any new scratches, Thomas had taken care of that by forcing me to clip my fingernails as short as I could without making them bleed. 

 

I felt gross and sticky, a chill settling over me as the sweat began drying. Desperately, I wanted to shower and change clothes, but Thomas and I currently had  _ nothing  _ but what we came with when we were shoved in here. I still hadn’t figured out why we’d been left here for the night. I doubt we’ll be allowed to stay here for long, WICKED wants us for something specific and I had my training to do. They’d given me a break, but they couldn’t be finished with me. The end game couldn’t possibly have been just to get me to shoot a Crank, how pointless would that be? Thinking about the possibilities made me sick and anxious — WICKED’s plans went over my head.

 

_ Mikey… _ Thomas begins, before his voice cuts off. I glance away from the sink and towards the door, which swings open slowly. To my surprise, it’s not Thomas. He was probably trying to warn me but —

 

“Hey, Tommy said you might need these,” Newt whispers, holding some folded clothes out to me. “They’re mine, but since you don’t have your own I’ll let you borrow ‘em for now.” He smiles, shy and nervous. His sandy hair sticks up in every direction, a sleep-flush on his cheeks. It makes me want to do something dumb like  _ aw  _ verbally, like one would at pictures of kittens or puppies.

 

The surprise at his entrance must show on my face — or maybe some kind of negative emotion, because that smile slowly fades and he begins to look more anxious. Quickly, I take the offered clothes, not wanting to seem rude or make him more uncomfortable than he probably already is. 

 

“Thanks,” I stutter, a flush settling over my cheeks. “I’m sorry, did I — did I wake you?”

 

Newt shrugs, “Not really. I was already awake….Minho kicks in his sleep. There’s no  _ way _ I’d be getting a good night's rest while sharing a bed with  _ that _ menace.”

 

“Still,” I shrug, offering a tired smile, “Thomas and I are the reason you have to share with Minho in the first place.”

 

“Yeah, but we’d rather have you guys here.” He dips his head, gazing from the floor to me then back down. “You’re pretty cool, for a hedgehog.”

 

“You’re pretty cool too,” I muse, no longer feeling oppressed by memories of the nightmare. “For a lizard.”

 

“Like I haven’t heard  _ that _ before!” Newt rolls his eyes, hands dropping to his hips. “Whatever. Hurry up and take your shower, I’m going back to bed.”

 

“Good luck with Minho!” I half-whisper at his back as he turns to leave. I receive an unamused glare in return before Newt closes the door behind him.

 

I feel lighter now. It’s easier to breathe.  _ I guess having friends is a good thing. _ I’ve always been so focused on Thomas that I never stopped to think about myself. Thomas loves and supports me unconditionally, but maybe I needed someone like Newt to remind me to step back every once in a while and just  _ breathe. _

 

Within five minutes I was out of the shower, making it quick because I was starting to feel tired again. Newt’s clothes fit me almost perfectly, and they were almost identical to what I’d been wearing before. Not a lot of  _ variance _ here. Everything was in shades of gray or just plain white, taking the ‘sterile’ theme to a whole new level. They were clean though, which was a great improvement to what I’d previously been wearing. I switched the lights off as I exited the bathroom, stumbling a bit in the dark as my eyes strained to adjust to the light change. 

 

With luck, I managed to make it all the way back to where Thomas was laying, his breaths even. I blinked for a moment, searching our connection and confirming that he was, in fact, asleep. Good. He needed a proper rest. Carefully, I slipped in beside him, every movement slow in effort not to wake him. When I was finally settled, I turned to face his sleeping form, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. I let it lull me back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Thomas and I wake at the same time, blinking our identical eyes open and peering around. There’s laughter coming from somewhere next to us, and when we look over we see the four other boys already awake and watching us.

 

“That’s almost creepy!” Nick says, shaking his head. 

 

“I think it’s cool!” Minho counters, before stepping closer to us and tugging at the covers. “Time to get up, greenbeans!” 

 

Thomas groans and drops his hands over his face, curling his body in on itself when the blankets are pulled from his body by the eager Korean boy. I sit up, stretching and yawning. Despite the fact that I hate mornings with a passion, waking up has always been easy for me. Shoving Thomas over, he grumbles before shuffling out of bed, allowing me to get off as well. 

 

If the boys notice that my clothes are different they don’t comment on it. In fact, they’re all perfectly civil and natural, which reassures me. Newt offers me a grin and I return it, rubbing sleep from my eyes. It’s a strange feeling, to have someone I can consider a friend after so many years of just Thomas. Teresa, Aris and Rachel didn’t really count, I didn’t trust them because they were like Thomas and I — special. ( To be honest, I wasn’t really fond of Teresa that much, and I wouldn’t be torn up if I never saw Aris or Rachel again. Thomas would miss the three of them because they were  _ his _ friends, not mine. )

 

“I hope you lugs are hungry,” Alby makes his way to the door, glancing back at us. “Breakfast was put out a few minutes ago.”

 

Nick follows him out, tossing a “Hurry up!” over his shoulder. Minho tugs at Thomas’ elbow, dragging my twin away and out of the room. 

 

“C’mon, Tomboy — we gotta get a table before the rest of those jerks wake up!” He exclaims, and his voice fades as they walk further away, complaining about a time that Zart had taken the last of the sausages one morning, before Minho had woken. Newt and I exchanged glances before moving after them more sedately.

 

“Are you?” Newt asks, breaking our comfortable silence, “hungry, I mean.”

 

“Not really.” I shrug. Eating in the morning had been difficult lately, especially with the poor sleep I’ve been getting. Most mornings I wake up queasy, head pounding and stomach recoiling at the idea of food. It usually settles after a few hours, but I’ve been dealing with a faint headache for a while now. Long term exhaustion will do that to you. I’ll probably be hungry around lunch time. Eating two meals a day isn’t great, but it was still enough food and I hadn’t passed out yet.

 

Newt nods and we fall back into silence. I wonder if I’m supposed to continue the conversation, perhaps I missed a cue? Was I supposed to ask if he was hungry in return? My poor conversation skills were kicking me in the ass; the one time I was actually  _ concerned _ with maintaining a relationship in this world and every social skill I knew flew out of my mind.

 

“Um,” I stutter out, twiddling my fingers nervously as we enter the main common room. The blonde boy turns to me, raising a brow. “How a-are you?” I wince the second the words leave my mouth. God, that’s not what I meant to say! Actually, I don’t even know what I wanted to say to begin with — something cool, maybe.

 

To my relief, Newt humors me, his lips quirked in a placating smile. “Doing pretty alrigh’, actually. You?”

 

“Uh, I’m — I’m doing good.” My cheeks flush scarlet, I feel like I’ve added something awkward to the air between us. Though it’s likely just me feeling it, because Newt still looks open and content, striding forward to take a seat at the table Minho and Thomas had claimed. The two were deep in conversation about possibly pranking some of the other boys. I dropped into the seat besides Newt, Thomas glancing up and smiling at me before turning back to his friend. He looked so in his element here. Maybe I’d never really noticed it before, but Thomas really  _ was _ a people person. He thrived on friends and attention and being a  _ part _ of something. I myself could spend days and weeks at a time by myself quite easily, and I shied away from attention with vehemence. All you needed to do to tell us apart was to wait and see who opened their mouth first. ( Hint: it would most certainly be Thomas. )

 

Newt leveled me with a searching look, chocolate eyes narrowed — but in a curious manner rather than an aggressive one. I squared my shoulders under his gaze, wondering what exactly he was looking for. The sounds of other boys yelling and eating echoed in my ears as I met his eyes with my own. We stared at each other for a bit, the longest I’ve met someone’s eyes aside from Thomas’. The Brit looked like he wanted to say something, lips parting every few seconds like he couldn’t figure out exactly what words to use.

 

“Okay.” He finally said, sounding like he didn’t believe me at all. I suppose, looking at myself, I wouldn’t believe that I was ‘doing good’ either. But I was grateful that he was letting it go for now, turning instead to the food on the table and piling various items on his plate. I watched him for a moment before turning and staring down at the empty plate before me. As I thought, I still wasn’t hungry.

 

* * *

 

No one from WICKED came for us that day, although I was still skeptical about the length of our stay. No new beds were added, but a few new pairs of clothing had been placed on Newt’s bed when we returned to the room some time after breakfast. Thomas showered and changed with glee, having been in the same clothes for a day and a half. I still felt fine in Newt’s clothes, though I resolved to change before bed. I felt bad taking his things. 

 

We spent six more days with them. Thomas and the others became hopeful that the situation was permanent. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so inclined to agree. Thomas couldn’t help but be aware of my disbelief, yet he refused to allow my doubt to taint his view. I didn’t bring it up verbally and neither did he. The last thing I wanted to do was make him sad by being negative, he didn’t deserve it. ( He deserved to stay here, happy and surrounded by his friends. )

 

“I’m scared,” I admit sometime after lunch on our seventh day here, half-reclined against the headboard of Newt’s bed with the blonde. It was only the two of us in the room, Minho and Thomas had gone off with Ben, Zart and a boy named Winston. Being surrounded by so many people for such an extended time was really wearing on my social limits, in here I could decompress and recharge. Of course, when Newt offered to join me I couldn’t say no, and I was glad to find he was content with sitting beside me and remaining silent aside from occasional bursts of small talk. 

 

By now I could say with confidence that we were friends. Both Newt and Minho were the ones I felt closest to, but Newt was on his own level. While after a while I’d need a break from Minho, it was never the case with Newt. His presence held me together when Thomas was away, like glue.

 

“...of what?” There’s no boyish teasing in his tone. He’s not the type to ridicule a person for having emotions. 

 

“A lot of things, Newt,” I chuckle, but it’s not a completely happy sound. “But mostly of what’s gonna happen next.”

 

“What do you mean?” He turns his face a little in my direction, our shoulders brushing together. 

 

“If they were going to let us stay here, wouldn’t they have added new beds by now?” I ask, wringing my hands, “Thomas doesn’t want to hear it — and I can’t blame him — but I’ve never been as optimistic as him. I think they’re going to take us away again, and I’m….” 

 

I breathe deeply, feeling shy and tense. Feelings are so hard to put into words, and I’ve never been comfortable confiding in others. “I’m terrified of going back there.” 

 

It comes out as a whisper, like I’m reluctant to let the admission hit the air. Maybe I am. But the truth is that I  _ am _ scared. I’m scared that they’ll make me kill more cranks, or even  _ people  _ who still had their wits about them. Every night I’d been here I’d woken from nightmares, though they’d been getting less violent and loud, and I still looked half-dead according to Minho.

 

“What did…” Newt trails off, lips twitching into a quick frown that quickly disappears. He looks at me with a vaguely neutral expression, but his eyes are bright and serious. “They did something to you, didn’t they?”

 

“Yes,” my voice is still low, cracking a little over the word. “I don’t want to go back but I think I am. There’s no way they’re done with me and Tommy, Newt.  _ No way _ .”

 

“Maybe.” he nods, “But you’ll never know for certain until it happens. You’re in a state of constant fear, Eddie, that _this_ _second_ could be your last with us. That’s no way to live! Time you could spend enjoying some sort of freedom with us you’re _wasting_ by lettin’ WICKED ruin it.”

 

“What else can I do?” I murmur, eyes wide with distress. I feel so small in this moment, seeking comfort and advice from a boy — a  _ child _ of only ten years. “I want to have fun with you guys while I can, I really do….but when I look at Thomas I can only think about how wrecked he’ll be when we have to leave and I — I desperately hope that maybe they’ll just take me and leave him here.”

 

“Blimey, Eddie!” Newt’s voice is almost scolding, his face screwed up in aggravated surprise. “Don’t you bloody say that! You  _ know _ the both of you are better off together than apart, Thomas would go crazy without you!” His voices rises a little and he sits up, body almost fully turned to me as his eyes blaze and bore into my own. “Why don’t you think of yourself for once? I like Thomas well enough, as do most of the other boys — but I like you, too! What if  _ I _ don’t want you to go, huh? What, did’ya think ‘oh, it’ll be fine if I take off, no one’ll miss me’?  _ Not bloody likely! _ ”

 

I stare at him for a long moment, slack-jawed with amazement. His chest heaves a little, a brilliant red flush on his cheeks. Despite his apparent embarrassment at his outburst, he maintains eye contact with me, driving his point home with a, “ _ You _ might not care about what happens to you, but _ I _ certainly do. So don’t go saying rubbish like that — like you’re somehow worth less than Thomas.”

 

“I’m — it’s not like that,” I protest weakly, feeling a little numb with shock. “I just want to protect him!”

 

“Yeah, I know.” Newt clenches his jaw, looking mulish, “But I think you’d do a much better job at protecting him if you were by his side. That way, you can protect each other. You keep forgetting, Eddie, that maybe you need to have someone take care of  _ you _ sometimes.”

 

“Thomas does that.” I answer immediately. He does, after all. When I have nightmares he supports me, he holds my hands and he loves me with all his heart. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me and I feel it  _ every _ second through our connection.

 

“He tries,” Newt shakes his head, prominent frown looking out of place on his young, cute face. “But I don’t think you let him do it completely, because you’re protecting him from yourself.”

 

My mind goes blank for a moment, expression reminiscent of a deer caught in headlights. When had Newt gotten so observant? So good at calling out the hidden parts of me? I felt  _ more _ than a little startled and bewildered by his observations. All I could do was stare into his earnest eyes and try to formulate a reply. I had no idea what to say about his vehement outburst.

 

A red flush settled on his cheeks and deepened the longer I stared at him. I was starting to make him anxious, I realized. “How did you….?” I finally choke out.

 

Newt breaks eye contact finally, glancing down at the bed sheets. “I just...noticed, from watching you interact with Thomas. You only let him comfort you to an extent, and then shy away to be alone. And he lets you — because I bet that’s what you’ve always done so he’s grown used to it. You’re not his mum, Eddie. You’re his  _ brother. _ ”

 

“You— ” I swallow, feeling more blindsided than ever, “ — you were watching me that closely?”

 

“N-Not intentionally!” He stutters, and now his ears are turning pink with the force of his blush. I can feel my own face heat up at the sight of his discomfort and embarrassment. “You’re new and you’re my friend, of course I was lookin’ out for you! You — you only really talk to me or Minho and you spend most of your time with me! I know you don’t feel comfortable around new people but you like me enough to—” he cuts himself off, suddenly looking a little worried, “you do like me, right?”

 

“I like you.” I answer dazedly, but I mean it.

 

“Good that,” there’s something like relief in his voice, “I’m just sayin’, I thought — it made me feel  _ special _ .”

 

“You  _ are _ special, Newt.” My voice comes back to me and I sit up. “You’re….you’re my best friend.”

 

He stares at me in silence for a moment, before sighing and settling back down against his pillow. “Well. Good.”

 

I lay back as well, feeling disoriented and chastised but strangely  _ light _ . It’s an odd feeling, to have someone watching out for you like this. Thomas looked out for me and adored me with everything he had, but from day one I’d considered  _ him _ a child and  _ me _ an adult. I’d made it my job to take care of him like a parent would, because our mental age difference had been so great. Newt was right -- Thomas wasn’t my child. He was my brother. Our dynamic was tilted because of  _ me _ , because of how I’d been treating him. And Thomas, not knowing any better, had gone along with it. 

 

“I don’t know how to change.” I blurt out, staring at the base of the top bunk. “It’s been so long and … I can’t just  _ not _ look out for him.”

 

“I’m not askin’ you to change or anything, Eddie.” Newt is quieter now, less worked up, “He’s your  _ brother,  _ and family always looks out for each other. I just want you to remember yourself every once in a while. Let him grow up a little bit, yeah? He’s allowed to make his own mistakes.”

 

“When’d you get so wise?” I tease weakly, knowing full well Newt had always seemed a bit more mature than the others. At least that haunted look in his eyes I’d seen the first time we’d met had faded as the years passed -- I still didn’t know what put it there to begin with, and I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to ask.

  
“Oh, I’ve always been this way, mate.” he laughs and knocks our elbows together. We’re silent for a few moments, comfortable. 

 

“I’m glad you’re my friend.” I say, just as I feel a familiar presence barreling towards us. Newt doesn’t notice, opening his mouth to respond before being interrupted when the door slams open. Thomas stands in the doorway, Minho peering behind him. They both have huge grins on their faces and flushed cheeks.

 

“What did you do?” Newt asks, resigned.

 

“Gally fell asleep, so we took the opportunity to improve his looks.” Minho proclaims, smug. Thomas is giggling, a hand stifling the sounds. The image of Gally with colorful pictures and lines drawn across his face in marker comes to my head, and I huff out a laugh. I almost want to reprimand him, but I halt, glancing over to Newt. I’m not our mom and dad, I’m a child like Thomas and my brother could do what he wanted as long as no one got hurt.

 

“But then he woke up so -- ” Minho’s words halt as an enraged yell echoes down the hall. “Oh, crap!” 

 

“MINHO! THOMAS!” A boy, most likely Gally, screams. His voice is getting closer. 

 

“AH! We gotta run!” Thomas yelps, tugging Minho away from the door and further down the hall.

 

“YOU TWO!”

 

“WE’VE BEEN SPOTTED!” Minho shrieks, laughter in his voice. They bolt down the hall and shortly after a figure flies past the entrance to the room. Gally is right on their heels and the sound of laughter and yelling echoes through the door.

 

“....yeah,” I nod solemnly, and Newt glances at me curiously, “You’re definitely my favorite.”

 

* * *

It’s during dinner that same day that the doors in the common room open, and a man in a lab coat walks in with two soldiers. Dread pools in my gut as the room quiets and attention is turned to them. Thomas catches my gaze and I can see my terror reflected back at me. They’re here for us, they must be.

 

“Thomas, Eddie.” the man says, stopping at our table. The soldiers hang back near the door. “Come with me, please.”

 

I don’t want to go back. But I look at the soldiers, with guns strapped to their thighs, and stand. My jaw clenches and -- to my embarrassment -- my eyes burn and water. I don’t care that I’m not technically a child in all senses, there’s only so much I can take -- no matter how old I am. I hate what WICKED is doing. I hate it.

 

A hand finds my own and I jolt, a tear slipping down my eye. Newt looks at me, deep brown gaze searching my face, tracing my features like he’s trying to memorize them. I look at him in much the same manner, taking in the way his sandy hair is always a mess, his button nose and delicate features. He looks more like a fairy than a lizard -- like Peter Pan. Something magical. 

 

“You’re my best friend.” I whisper, voice thick and shaking. Newt’s bottom lip trembles and he swallows, eyes suspiciously bright.

 

“Why do we have to go!?” Thomas smacks his hands on the table as he levels himself up. His amber eyes narrowed in a glare. Minho and Ben look angry as well, mouths set in stubborn frowns on either side of Thomas.

 

“You have tasks to complete, Thomas. We can’t allow you to stay here.” the man placates, his blue eyes sharp like ice despite the disarming smile on his face. “It’s not like you won’t see them again.”

 

“We’re coming back?” he asks with all the innocence of a child, brows drawn together and a steely expression on his face. “Do you mean it?”

 

“I promise. You’ll see your friends again.” the doctor replies. I don’t trust a word he says, but Thomas looks like he’s a little more agreeable. He knows as well as I do that we could easily be dragged out of here kicking and screaming -- it was better to go without a fight with the promise of being allowed back.

 

The soldiers step forward, ushering Thomas and I towards the doors. Newt’s hand slips from my own and he flinches. Thomas takes my hand in exchange, gluing himself to my side as we trudge between the two towering men, the doctor leading the way. A chair clatters to the ground when we reach the door and it slides open with a mechanical whir, faint compared to the commotion behind us.

 

“Eddie!”

 

I whip around as the door begins to close, catching Newt’s wild expression from where he’d shoved away from the table. His lips part to say something else -- but the door slides shut with a click.

 

* * *

 

Thomas and I don’t see each other during the day as much anymore. Ever since returning from Group A, my twin has been working very closely with Teresa and the doctors on some sort of project. They’re designing a test of some sort, though I don’t understand why they’d want two kids to make it -- especially if it was so important to their ‘research’.

 

I, on the other hand, began training in physical combat as well as firearm usage. I was woken every day bright and early, allowed breakfast, and then dragged off to shooting practice. From there it was lunch, followed by hand to hand combat until dinner. Thomas and I were exhausted, both mind and body, and were unable to talk much when we were finally left alone for the night. I usually conked out shortly after my nightly shower, though I tried my best to stay awake to ask him about his day. The worry Thomas feels for me is potent, and it simmers like a constant buzz in the back of my mind most days.

 

If our situations were reversed, I’m sure I’d be just as worried. After all, every night I return to our room covered in new bruises and the occasional cut. A few weeks in and half my skin is yellow with faded, healing marks and the rest is vivid purple with fresh ones. The soldiers don’t go easy on me. We’re starting at the basics but they don’t pull their punches nearly as much as they should. My age doesn’t seem to matter in the slightest to them, their only concern is making me as efficient a weapon as possible. Because that’s what I’m becoming, a weapon for WICKED to use. 

 

My purpose is to protect Thomas and the other children. There’s a lot of talk about a trial. It’s connected to whatever Thomas and Teresa are making, but I’m unsure of exactly  _ how  _ I fit into the equation. Why would they need protection from a test?

 

“Again.” Instructor Davis is a tall, imposing man with a gnarly scar across his left cheekbone and eyes so dark they look black. He terrifies me. His shaved head and silent movements scream ‘soldier’ in the black ops sense, but I guess you have to be light on your feet to survive in this world. Cranks are attracted to sound.

 

I pick my aching body up from the training mat, my shin throbbing from where he’d leg-swiped me. It was hardly fair, he was enormous compared to me! His leg looked more like a tree trunk when it clashed with my own, there was no  _ way  _ I’d stay standing.

 

He moves back into position and I mimic him, my arms shaking as I hold them out in front of me. 

 

“Roll!” he demands sharply as he lashes out again. I manage to dodge to the side and avoid his kick, dropping into a roll over one shoulder. The maneuver was successful.  _ Thank god, _ I think,  _ I do  _ not  _ need another black eye. _

 

We do a few more drop-rolls, not all of them as successful. I’m improving, at least. And it’s noticeable enough that I sometimes receive a curt nod of approval from Instructor Davis. After we finish those, he sets me on the makeshift punching bags until my knuckles go numb.

 

“Why….” I don’t speak much, if ever, to anyone aside from Thomas since coming back from Group A. If my Instructor is startled he doesn’t show it. I need to ask a question that’s been on my mind for weeks since they started me on this routine. “Why am I the only one learning this? Wouldn’t it be beneficial to all the kids to know how to defend themselves?”

 

“Yes.” he answers my second question curtly. “But we don’t have the time or resources to train that many kids.” It sounds like a flimsy excuse. “And you and your brother are needed for different objectives.”

 

Well, that doesn’t sound reassuring. 

 

“I don’t understand.” I state, blunt. 

 

“You don’t need to. You just need to do what you’re told.” Instructor Davis counters, settling back into a defensive stance. “Now try to land a hit on me.”

 

* * *

 

“Ow, ow!” I hiss through my teeth as Thomas prods my recently broken bloody nose with a tissue. His own face is scrunched up in second-hand pain, a finger rubbing the bridge of his own nose. I’m seated on the lid of our bathroom toilet, Thomas standing between my knees.

 

“Sorry, Eddie.” he frowns, eyeing my new bruises with poorly concealed anger. I’d been freed from training early today after being nailed in the face by an errant elbow, my nose having suffered a break. One of the doctors had snapped it back in place ( I’d nearly thrown up from the shock of it ) but it was still bleeding a little.

 

“Hey,” I soothe, “It’s training, Tommy. Every day I’m getting better.” It was true -- I’d been training for almost eight months now. ( Eight months away from Group A. ) Lately I’d been returning back to the room with less bruising. My body was more toned too, well -- as toned as an eleven year old’s could be. Our birthday had passed again, though neither of us had noticed until nearly a week after.

 

_ I miss Newt. _

 

“I know.” 

 

I startle, eyes refocusing on my brother. He smiles, soft and understanding. I must have projected my thoughts without realizing. 

 

“I miss him too,” he continues, leaning back and tossing the bloody tissues in the wastebasket. “And I miss the others.”

 

“Yeah,” I sigh, thinking of Minho’s blinding grin and Ben’s boisterous laughter and even Gally’s blunt jokes. I missed them all with a fervor that surprised me. I’d never gotten attached to anyone so quickly, much less a group! Hard times, desperate measures, overwhelming desire for safety -- I guess it wasn’t hard to see how it happened.

 

“I think we’re gonna see them soon.” Thomas confided. “Dr. Paige said she’d look into it when I asked her.”

 

Because of course he did, it wouldn’t be Thomas if he didn’t. The entire eight months we’d been on our own, he hadn’t let up in his pestering about seeing the other boys again. I might not have said anything about it to the adults, but I didn’t have to. Thomas spoke enough about it for the both of us.

 

“I hope so.” I didn’t affirm or deny his claim, not wanting to hope but also not willing to ignore it entirely. I desperately wanted to see those kids again, just to feel normal for once.

 

* * *

Turns out Thomas was right. Three days later we were collected in the morning and led together down a hall towards the wing that housed Group A. Thomas beamed the second he realized where we were being led, a bounce to his step. I followed more slowly, body stiff and sore from sleeping on bruises. I had two black eyes from my broken nose, the cartilage still tender and held in place by a piece of white medical tape. My face felt like one big bruise, more purple and red than pale flesh, even three days later. I’d been allowed a break from hand to hand combat while my nose was healing. The trainers were harsh, but not cruel. Instead, for the past few days I’d been learning how to handle knives -- which is why my hands looked  _ mummified  _ with the amount of bandages covering thin slices and nicks. 

 

Not exactly ready for picture day, was I? I felt a little self-conscious about my less-than-stellar appearance, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Thomas slipped his hand into mine, the action second nature by now. We walked through the sliding door together, excited and nervous. 

 

I was worried that they’d forgotten us, despite the fact that before, two whole years had passed and now it’d only been eight months. Children formed bonds easily, they could meet and decide to be best friends all in the same day. Thomas and I, being separated from the rest, held onto the memories of the friendships we’d formed with desperation to make ourselves feel better. The other boys were constantly around each other and most likely never felt lonely. They had no need to cling to each other or rely so heavily on a couple of hours worth of time with two boys. 

 

But….Newt’s face came to the front of my mind, as did the words he’d said to me. I had to believe he meant it. I had to believe he actually cared enough about me to keep calling me a friend. 

 

“Eddie!” 

 

Speak of the devil, my head had never turned so fast when I heard the familiar british lilt. Newt’s sandy blonde head came into view, his brown eyes wide as he jogged over to us, some of the boys right behind him.

 

“Jesus!” Minho exclaimed, right on Newt’s heels. He pinwheeled to a stop beside the blonde boy, looking from me to Thomas and back. Genuine concern filled his face as he gazed at me. “Oh, man, what the hell? Are you alright?”

 

“I’m okay.” I shrugged, glancing over at Newt, who stood silent with a heavy look in his dark eyes. “Honestly, it’s worse than it looks. Really.”

 

Thomas huffed. “Yeah, a broken nose is  _ ‘okay’ _ .”

 

“You broke your nose!?” Minho frowned, brows drawing low. “How?”

 

“Minho, zip it.” Newt finally spoke, elbowing his friend in the gut lightly. Minho scowled and rubbed his side, but dropped it. 

 

“Whatever, c’mon then -- let’s hang out while we got time, yeah?” the Korean boy jerked his head back toward the center of the common room where a large group of boys stood. Thomas moved to follow and dragged me along. Newt fell into step beside me, his expression pensive. 

 

I glanced at him a few times before sighing and slipping my hand out of Thomas’ grasp. He spared me a look and a questioning jab at our connection, but I just shook my head and offered him a smile. He quirked his lips and nodded, turning back to Minho and the others. I stopped, staying a few feet back from the other boys and Newt stayed at my side, twiddling his thumbs. It felt awkward, and I didn’t want that. I wanted it to be as natural as it was before -- I wanted to feel safe beside him. So I took one of his fumbling hands in my own and held it. 

 

He started, glancing at our joined hands for a bit before slowly looking at me. A flush spread over my cheeks as he looked at me with an unreadable expression. I wondered, for a terrifying moment, if I’d made a mistake and Newt really  _ had  _ stopped considering me a friend. 

 

But then he smiled. It lit up his whole face despite the lingering anxiety in his eyes. He adjusted his grip on my hand and laced our fingers together.

 

“What were you going to say?” I ask, recalling the way he’d yelled my name out the last time I’d seen him. “You got cut off…”

 

It’d been eight months though, maybe he didn’t remember…

 

“Ah.” his grin turned sheepish, free hand brushing through his messy hair. “I just -- well, I remembered a little too late that I’d never said it back.”

 

“Said what?”

 

Newt’s cheeks turn rosy, but he meets my eyes, “You’re my best friend too.”

 

“Oh.” I say, and now we’re just standing there staring at each other, red-faced and grinning. “Well. Good.” 

 

* * *

 

“There’s a new kid here. They brought him in a month ago.” Newt mentions offhandedly. We’re seated off to the side against one of the walls, hands still clasped together. “His name’s Chuck. He’s only six -- no one really knows how to deal with him, he’s a bit of a crybaby.”

 

“You’re not bein’ mean to him, are you?” I question, one eyebrow raised. 

 

“Nah,” Newt shakes his head, “I’ve been lookin’ out for him a bit, but some of the other boys aren’t so kind. It’s like they forgot we were all that young and scared when we first came here.”

 

“Yeah...it’s been a while.” I hadn’t thought about it in a long time, but Thomas and I had been here for about six year now. We’d been with WICKED longer than we’d been with our parents. I couldn’t remember what they looked like now. My mother had shared our eyes, that much I recalled.

 

“Eddie?” 

 

“Sorry,” I murmur, squeezing Newt’s hand gently. “I just...realized how long it’s really been. I can’t -- I don’t remember what my parents looked like. Not entirely.”

 

The british boy tenses for a moment, enough that I glance at him sharply and realize that the topic of ‘parents’ might be a bit sensitive for reasons I’m unaware of. But he purses his lips and gives me a sympathetic look.

 

“....do you wanna talk about it?” he asks, hesitant.

 

“I mean. Maybe?” I frown. “It’s hard, I guess. Because I don’t want to forget them but...I feel like I miss them less every day. I’m so distracted by everything that’s happening that I barely even think about them anymore -- I haven’t in a while. Does that make me a bad son?”

 

“I don’t think so.” Newt denies, shaking his head. “After all, it’s not your fault.”

 

“They’re probably dead.” What drove me to say it, I’ll never know. But I bite my lip harshly after the words leave my mouth, eyes stinging. I felt awful that I hadn’t spared the people who’d loved Thomas and I so unconditionally a thought throughout the years. They deserved more than that.

 

“Hey, hey,” Newt shuffles closer, his grip on my hand tightening in comfort. “You don’t know that, Eddie.”

 

“My dad,” I feel mortified when my voice catches. It feels like all I ever do is cry and I  _ hate _ it. I’m supposed to be the adult here -- I’m supposed to be the strong one! “He had the flare.”

 

Newt’s hand leaves mine, instead moving his arm to wrap around my shoulders and tug me closer against him. “Alright, maybe you do know. But listen, Eddie, you can’t -- you can’t let that get to you. They loved you, yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” I agree weakly.

 

“Then all you gotta do is remember that.” Newt presses his forehead to my own, “You gotta hold onto the good, Eddie.”

 

“You’re good.” I mumble, pressing into his side.

 

He laughs, his grip on me tightening for a split second. “If you say so.”

 

* * *

 

I meet Chuck for the first time a few hours later. He’s sat by himself at a table, eating lunch and wiping at his running nose with one hand.

 

“Stop that,” I scold gently, startling him. I drop into the seat next to him and wrap a napkin around his nose. “Blow.” I instruct.

 

Blindly, he does, too taken aback to do anything else. I wipe at his nose a little more before balling up the used napkin and placing it atop clean one. He’s a cute kid, pudgy cheeks flushed red and eyes bright. His hair is a curly mop of sandy brown, and his eyes are hazel.  _ Hazel, _ I muse,  _ I think father had hazel eyes, didn’t he? _

 

Chuck looks at me in wonder, though clearly pensive about the vivid constellation of bruises maring my visible skin. It’s obvious the other boys haven’t bothered to take care of him, being children themselves. In fact, he looks like he’s about to start crying at my basic show of kindness.

 

“Chuck, right?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle. He nods rapidly, curls bouncing, not responding verbally. “I’m Eddie. How’re you holding up?”

 

“...okay.” he responds shyly, moving his awestruck gaze back down to his food. Every few seconds he glances back up at me, like he can’t believe I’m actually sitting there beside him, giving him the time of day.

 

“That’s good. None of the boys are bein’ mean to you, are they?” Newt had told me they weren’t, but I had to make sure.

 

Chuck shakes his head vehemently. “No, no -- they mostly ignore me…”

 

“Well, that can be pretty mean, too.” It wasn’t good for a kid as young as Chuck to be left on his own. “No one wants to be your friend?”

 

“Newt’s nice.” he shrugs, little shoulders hunched. 

 

“Yeah, he is.” I feel a burst of pride in my chest and I grin, pleased. 

 

“Is Newt your boyfriend?” 

 

“Yeah, he -- ” I pause, blinking. My mouth drops a little, an expression of surprise dominating my countenance. “Wait, what?” 

 

Chuck looks at me, owlish. His fingers fiddle with the hem of his shirt, obviously wondering if he’d said something wrong. “I’m sorry!” he exclaims, biting his lip, “It’s just, Minho said -- ”

 

“Oh,” I breathe. That kind of teasing should have been expected from Minho of all people. The other boys were either just around twelve or older -- nearing the age where girls and things became a concern. Puberty was just around the corner, it made sense that jokes and jabs about girlfriends ( and boyfriends ) were starting. But god, did I already feel exasperated. 

 

_ Puberty. Again. _

 

The idea of it filled me with a kind of hilarious dread, I felt like laughing and screaming at the same time. Hormones were the  _ last  _ thing I wanted to deal with, especially since I was surrounded by  _ boys. _ The amount of testosterone that’d be filling this place in the next few years was gonna drive me crazy. And puberty was  _ embarrassing _ , too. It was awful having to go through it once! ( At least, I recall going through it. But the details were fuzzy. I still couldn’t remember if I’d been a girl or a boy in my first life. Maybe I’d been neither? The fact was, I didn’t really know if I had experience with male puberty, but the feelings of teenage angst and mortification would be the same no matter what. )

 

“I’m eleven,” I say, putting those tumultuous thoughts on the back burner. “I’m not really interested in dating. Don’t listen to Minho, he’s dumb. ‘Sides, Newt’s my best friend, definitely  _ not  _ my boyfriend.”

 

“Oh, okay.” he nods, though I’m not sure if he completely believes me. Whatever, I suppose I should get used to all this  _ crush _ talk sprouting up in the coming months and years. I wonder how it would pan out, seeing as we were separated from the girls, I highly doubted every Group A boy was solely attracted to  _ males _ . 

 

Actually, I’d never thought about it myself. Did I like boys or girls? Both? Neither? I pictured myself with a girl. Didn’t seem awful. Picturing myself with a guy didn’t seem bad either, so I suppose I just didn’t have much of a preference. 

 

“Anyway, why don’t you hang around with us today?” I urge, jerking a thumb behind me in the direction of the other boys. “Unless you want to be alone?” I could relate to that, but I highly doubted Chuck was the same way. He’s face had  _ longing _ written all over it.

 

“No!” he gasps, “I mean -- I don’t wanna be a-alone, if...if that’s okay?” 

 

“Yeah, Chuck,” my eyes soften, taking in his big doe eyes and earnest expression, “That’s totally okay.”

 

Chuck is shy at first, but Thomas takes him under his wing within minutes, making sure to include the younger boy in all of the games. I send over a warm burst of pride and happiness, glad to see the more mature, kind side of Thomas. He’s grown so much in such a short amount of time. My twin shoots me a brilliant smile, cheeks flushed. I feel a tangled mess of exuberance and returned pride through our connection. 

 

Newt joins in this time after I urge him to stop wallowing around me. I know he doesn’t want to leave me alone, but running around and dodging flailing limbs with an aching body and healing nose isn’t my idea of fun.

 

To my surprise, Minho actually plops down beside me, breathing hard and wiping sweat from his brow. 

 

“Hey,” he greets, grabbing a random cup from the table we’re sat at and downing it. “You sure you’re alright just sittin’ out?”

 

“Yeah,” I shrug, “I like watchin’ you guys more than participating. Thomas feels enough for the both of us.”

 

Minho nods like he understands, but I know it’s impossible unless you’ve got a bond like the one Thomas and I have. “Well,” he begins, “Later, do you mind telling us one of your stories, like you did last time?”

 

I’d told quite a few stories during the week my brother and I had been left here, mostly about various superheroes. Spider-Man continued to be my favorite hero to talk about, while Thomas stuck with Iron Man. I tried to recall the ones I’d told the Group A boys, but the memories were a little faint. 

 

“Yeah, sure. I might repeat a few.” I acquiesce, “And I’m not sure how long we’ll be allowed to stick around this time.”

 

“Don’t think about it,” Minho says, leaning back against the table. “And don’t worry about repeating stories, a lot of us forgot details anyway. Plus, Chuck hasn’t heard  _ any _ of ‘em.”

 

“Yeah,” I nod, before giving him a considering look. “Who was your favorite?” I wonder if he’d told me before. I hope he hadn’t, because then I’d feel bad about forgetting it.

 

“Captain America,  _ duh! _ ” he scoffed, “The Winter Soldier too, they’re both awesome. And best friends -- so it’s like, even cooler!”

 

“Good choices,” I laugh, patting his shoulder. “They’re some of my favorites too! Do you guys still have the -- ”

 

“The pictures?” Minho interrupts, “Yeah. No one’s as good as you are, but we’ve got a lot of boys drawin’ all the different heroes even now.” 

 

“Aw, that’s nice.” I grin, feeling strangely proud that I’ve turned so many boys into unknowing comic book nerds. Me telling stories hazily ingrained in my memory would never be the same as actually reading the comics or watching the movies, but it was all we had to keep ourselves entertained. 

 

“Newt draws a lot.” the Korean boy mentions suddenly, false nonchalance in his tone. He’s trying to hard to seem innocent. 

 

“Does he.” my voice is dry, expression giving nothing away. I can already see where this is going.

 

“Talks about you a lot too.” He’s glancing at me slyly now, trying and failing to be subtle. 

 

“Listen, Minho,” my lips quirk into a knowing grin, “Just because your love life is lacking doesn’t mean you gotta start projecting on everyone around you.”

 

“I’m not!” he denies, hands waving, “But you guys held hands! Everyone knows if you’re not family and you hold hands that means you’re  _ dating! _ ”

 

“Says who?” I snort, completely bewildered by his logic. Then again, the environment he’s in hasn’t exactly provided him with any information on how proper relationships form and progress. “When has holding hands been just for romantic situations?  _ Friends  _ can hold hands if they want! Anyone who tells you otherwise is an idiot.”

 

I was a big believer in platonic touch and comfort. It was stupid to think that expressions of affection like hugs and hand holding had to be stigmatized. In a place like this, we needed as much comfort as we could, and without the full influence of a society and popular culture, there weren’t any forced ideals of masculinity being pressed upon us. There was no reason to think affection and kindness couldn’t be shown between us, even if we were boys.

 

“....yeah, maybe.” Minho shrugs, accepting it easily. He has no reason to doubt me or believe otherwise. “But Newt only holds  _ your _ hand.”

 

“I held his hand first,” I counter, shooting him a look, wondering what  _ exactly  _ he was fishing for. “...Newt didn’t put you up to this, did he?” 

 

It didn’t seem like something the blonde boy would do, but if he  _ did _ have a crush on me, he might have confided in Minho. I really hoped that wasn’t the case, I didn’t know how to deal with the affections of a soon-to-be twelve year old. Even when I was older ( in my last life ) I’d always been bad at reacting to other people’s confessions. I  _ always  _ felt awkward and bad about saying no and it usually sent me spiraling into bad moods. Then again, that was when confessions came from people I wasn’t interested in, so I didn’t have a positive experience to compare to. I’d never been approached by anyone I’d had feelings for. Never been in a relationship before my death. 

 

But forget that -- I wasn’t attracted to Newt, or anyone for that matter. In this moment in time, the only outcome was that  _ crushing  _ awkwardness.

 

“No, no!” Minho shook his head rapidly, “It’s just me messin’ around. You’re both just really shy and blush easy so teasing you is funny.”

 

“Thanks.” I deadpan, punching his arm lightly. “I feel honored.”

 

“You should,” he puffs out his chest, nose raised snootily. “Having my attention is a blessing!”

 

“More like a  _ curse. _ ” 

 

“Hey!”

 

* * *

 

They let us stay for ten whole days this time, when my bruises are finally yellowed and fading. My face still looks a mess, but it’s easier to make quick movements without feeling pain now.

 

I tell stories every day, and Minho falls in love with Black Widow. Newt’s favorite hero is the Hulk, to my surprise and joy. We have drawing circles that more often than not end with markers been thrown at faces and limbs being drawn on instead of paper. But we have fun --  _ all  _ of it is fun. Chuck integrates himself well into the group, following Thomas and I around like a lost duck. I hope he’ll be okay when we’re taken away. 

 

We stay in the same room as before, Thomas and I crammed into Newt’s bed again while he shared with Minho. I only wake from nightmares twice. 

 

It’s nice. But it makes the idea of returning back to that  _ cell _ of a room Thomas and I live in even more daunting. I don’t talk about wanting to stay anymore, not this time around. Something feels different. WICKED has something planned and we’re  _ capaulting  _ towards it. There’s a plan set in motion, that test I heard them speak of -- the one Thomas and Teresa are designing. 

 

It scares me, because there’s an endgame here. And I don’t know what the outcome is meant to be, or where it will leave us. 

 

Chuck cries when the soldiers come to take us away. Big, heaving sobs with snot dripping down his nose. He clings to our shirts with pudgy fingers and Minho has to pry him off of us because Thomas is clinging right back. He’s grown attached to the boy during our stay. I ruffle Chuck’s hair as he burrows into Minho’s side and cries, the korean boy looking mildly uncomfortable but offering us a nod in farewell, smile tight. 

 

I give Newt a hug. It’s not something I do often, generally my hugs are reserved for Thomas and maybe Chuck -- the most I do is quick side hugs with the other boys. But this is a tight, full-on hug, my hands fisted in the back of his shirt and my nose buried against his neck. He’s a little taller than me. His own arms lock around me instantly, squeezing tightly. 

 

“Goodbye, Newt.” I whisper, for his ears only. He stiffens, arms tightening for a moment. There’s a finality in my words and tone that he’s noticed.

 

“Don’t...don’t say that.” He pulls back a little to look at my eyes, chocolate clashing with amber. “It’s ‘see you later’, Eddie. Never goodbye.”

 

“See you later.” I echo, and step out of his lanky arms. “I’ll miss you.”  _ Whether I see you again or not. _

 

“See you later.” he murmurs.

 

* * *

 

“Eddie, get up.”

 

I open my eyes, squinting into the darkness. The space beside me is empty, and I wipe my eyes groggily. It takes me a second to realize that it  _ was _ Thomas who had spoken. He’s standing next to the bed, hand on my shoulder. 

 

“Wha--?” Dazed, I sit up. “Wha’ssa matter?” 

 

“It’s our birthday!” 

 

I blink at him, hands in the sheets. “....oh. Uh, happy birthday.”

 

This is one of the few times we’ve actually remembered the correct day. I squint, still feeling a little out of it. “What time is it?”

 

“Early,” he shrugs, “But they wanted us up. I think...they’re letting us see Group A today.”

 

“What, as some kind’a birthday gift?” I ask, shuffling out of bed. Thomas moves back to let me slip by. 

 

A lot of time has passed. We’re thirteen today and we’ve seen the Group A boys only a handful of hours over the past two years, always entering and leaving the same day. My training has increased, but so has my skill. I have more kills under my belt. Not people per se, but Cranks. Still made me feel awful, because they  _ had _ been someone once. ( Someone like our father. ) But once I became proficient at killing with a gun, they had me work with the knives.  _ That  _ was much worse, getting up close and personal and actually having to  _ force  _ a blade through resisting flesh. It was a million times more awful than using a gun. More scarring. I was messed up for a while after the first time, but I hadn’t been given a reprieve like I had after my first gun kill. Thomas had to pick me up every night and piece what he could back together. It was trying and awful and took a toll on both of us. I felt like he was taking care of me more days than I was taking care of him. 

 

It didn’t matter who was older anymore. We had each other and we used that to our advantage, relying on the other for help and comfort. Thomas needed it less, safe and tucked away in labs designing a goddamn  _ maze trial. _ So a lot of his efforts were focused on me rather than himself. 

 

But I pushed forward. For him. WICKED needed me to be strong enough to survive the world and protect Thomas from all possible adversaries. Even if we found a cure, the world wasn’t safe anymore. There were Cranks everywhere, some so far gone we weren’t even sure a cure was viable for them. The world would need to be purged and searched and there would always be the worry that  _ someone _ had been missed and the Flare still thrived. So I needed to be  _ enough _ . I needed to be the guardian that watched Thomas’ back. I needed to be good enough to face the Scorch and make it back in one piece.

 

This is what they tell me, clinging to their hope of a cure. I’m bitter and wrathful and I will never approve of their methods but I hope a cure is found. I really do. The time to worry, I believe, would be if WICKED finally decided that the remainder of humanity was more important than the Immunes who could survive and drained us to our deaths. 

 

If it came down to it...the world could fall. I didn’t care anymore. How long would it take for a cure to be found, if there even was one? Immunes were humanity's last hope, in more ways than one. Two futures, two paths, two possibilities.

 

“They’re going to tell everyone about the trials today.” Thomas says, breaking my heavy thoughts. I’m halfway through changing, one leg in my pants. He sounds somber. I finish dressing and eye him, feeling the roiling darkness in his gut.

 

“You’re worried.” It’s not a question.

 

“Yes.” He answers anyway. “I don’t like it….I know I made it -- and that just makes it  _ worse. _ I keep telling myself it’ll be worth it, because it’s for a cure...but WICKED isn’t telling me anything and I don’t want…” he swallows, looking so young and scared than I’m across the room and pulling him into my arms before I even realize it.

 

“I don’t want them to get hurt,” he whispers, voice tight. “I’m scared, Eddie, I’m so scared.”

 

“It’s just a maze, Tommy.” I murmur, hating that he can hear the lie in my words and feel the fear in my chest. “What could be so bad about it?”

 

“Everything,” he breathes, “More than you could ever imagine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Puberty is scary, huh? We're so close to the beginning of the Maze guys! ( Not the Maze Runner, that won't happen for a while. But the trials are about to begin! )


	4. Remember What Matters

Thomas is keeping something from me. I don’t know what it is and that worries me more than words can say. He’s never tried so adamantly to keep secrets from me, we’re usually open books with each other. I can’t help but eye him as we walk into the room housing the Group A boys. It’d almost been a year since we last saw them.

The mood when we entered was somber and tense, which only made Thomas stiffen. I frowned, eyeing the downcast and fearful expressions on everyone’s faces and Thomas’ uncomfortable shifting. My life had been so separated from my brother’s that I felt out of loop.

Thomas hung back by the door when no one came to greet us, everyone lost in their own thoughts or huddled in groups speaking lowly. I strode forward, searching for my favorite familiar faces.

“Newt, Minho.” I breathe a sigh of relief when I spot them together at a table with the usual crowd. They glance up at me, startled. “What the hell is going on? Why is everyone acting so weird?”

“...Thomas?” Minho questions tentatively, dark gaze moving from my form to my twin, who was acting like … well, like _me_.

“Eddie, actually.” I correct. It’s not the first time we’ve been confused for each other, but it’s a first for it to come from Minho.

He blinks a little in surprise, but quickly shakes it off. “You mean you don’t know?”

I grit my teeth, crossing my arms, “No. Thomas is keeping secrets from me, I can _feel_ it. It’s scaring me -- and so is the way you’re all acting!”

Newt and Minho exchange looks, something heavy in their eyes. I haven’t seen that look of loss on Newt’s face in _years_ , not since our first meeting. It’s worrying, enough that my heart kicks up a notch in response to my anxiety. I feel like I’m vibrating, the tension in the air getting the best of me.

“Guys, please...what’s going on?” I plead. Minho sighs, glancing at Newt before standing up.

“I’ll let Newt explain, I wanna have a word with Tomboy over there.” he murmurs, patting me on the shoulder as he passes. He’s grown taller and filled out a bit in the past year, putting him almost two inches above my current height. Newt pats the now open seat beside him, and I drop into it with a pensive expression. Newt looks a little older too, still thin and lanky, but even _sitting_ his head is a little above mine.

“When we were younger, do you remember what they did to us, with the tests?” he begins, stilted and slow like he’s figuring out exactly what to say.

“Yeah.” It was hard to forget, all the brain scans and needles and prodding and poking. They’d even inserted a chip in our necks about a week or two in. It’d been so long I’d almost forgotten about it. It was easy to forget what it really was -- after all, it had felt like a simple shot ( albeit at the base of your skull ) that was over in seconds. No surgery required.

“Well, they said it was for scanning our brains while we’re -- while we’re in the _Maze_.” his voice drops off, quieting so others around him don’t hear. “They’re gonna put us in soon. WICKED won’t tell us much about it, or what we’re even gonna be doing there. It’s spooked a lot of the boys.”

Okay. That wasn’t new information. I’d been aware they wanted to put us in a maze. It didn’t sound so bad; after all, how long would it take for us to find a way out? Strictly speaking, it didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world, unless there was something _else_ about the maze WICKED ( and Thomas ) weren’t telling us.

“I heard about being put through a test of some sort but,” I scrunch my nose, confusion visible on my face, “What’s so frightening about a maze? We just need to find the exit, right? Is there something else we need to be worried about?”

WICKED needed us, didn’t they? Surely the Maze wouldn’t be life-threatening!

 _But_ , I thought with sudden, icy fear, _then why was I trained to kill?_

Was there some adversary lurking in the Maze that the boys would need to be protected from? I breathed in sharply, twiddling my fingers in a nervous habit. Learning these skills was one thing, but using them in front of my friends? What would they think of me? Sure, I’d use what I’d learnt to protect them, no matter what -- but I didn’t want them to look at me like I was some sort of monster.

“I dunno...it’s just…” Newt shrugs, clearly at a loss. “The whole bloody thing was unsettling. I can’t help but think it’s not going to be what we expect. And they said...they said there was more than one Maze. Lizzie’s being put in a different one.”

He sounds so defeated, shoulders slumped and exhaustion at the situation obvious. There’s nothing fair about this, about what WICKED is doing to us. Terror lurks in the Maze. We don’t know what it is or what to expect, but every boy in Group A is stricken with the same fear. Our situation is about to change, and we haven’t been promised safety.

“I’m sorry, Newt.” It’s all I can do, I’m just as helpless as he is in this situation. I hadn’t known there would be more than one Maze -- I hadn’t thought about it much at all, actually.

“Yeah, Eddie, me too.”

* * *

We left the Group A boys on a sour note. Thomas still quiet beside me as we made our way back to our room. The last time we’d been this quiet was after Thomas had come back from ‘putting down’ some of the staff who’d gotten infected by the Flare. That had been a dark time, WICKED had made Thomas, Teresa, Aris and Rachel chose the fates of those poor soon-to-be Cranks. Of course, they hadn’t had to shoot them like I did. No, this time they were just euthanized. But they’d had to watch. I’d felt Thomas’ fear and discomfort during that day. The night after he’d told me how terrified he’d been, to see Teresa and Aris so resigned and willing to put down doctors they’d worked with. Rachel was the only one who’d been as disgusted by the idea as Thomas had been.

He’d cried every night for a week.

But now, I didn’t know _what_ had Thomas so out of it. It bothered me. I wasn’t used to not knowing everything about him.

“They’re going to be put in the maze in two weeks.” he speaks up suddenly, when we’re finally back in our room.

“...okay.” I furrow my brow. “How long should it take them?”

Thomas looks at me, heartbreak swirling in his gaze and his heart. It makes me step back, overcome by the hurricane of emotion I’m bombarded with.

“I don’t know, Eddie.” his hands shake. “But it could take _years_.”

“Years!?” I gasp, “What the hell, Thomas! What the fuck are they being sent into!?”

My brother flinches at my raised voice and harsh tone, having never been on the receiving end of it. I feel awful, instantly regretting it and he shrugs and shakes his head to let me know it’s already forgotten. But I’m still trembling with barely concealed rage, none of it actually directed at Thomas.

( But he’d certainly played his part. )

“They don’t want me to tell you about it.” he admits, wringing his hands.

“Why not?” I grit out, clenching my fists.

“Because you wouldn’t like it. They don’t trust you.”

“With good reason,” I mutter, I’d never given them an opportunity to do so. I hate them and I’ve never tried to hide it.

“Eddie,” Thomas says, despair twisting between us. “We can’t fight them. You’re going in the maze.”

Ice creeps down my spine. “You didn’t say _we_.”

“No.” he chokes, eyes wet, “I didn’t.”

* * *

 

We were isolated. I was moved into a separate room and put through my training routine, only communicating with Thomas through our connection. They were preparing him for something, and his trepidation only fueled my own. For the first few days apart I’d had mixed emotions, taking time to think over everything that was happening and how Thomas fit into it all. No matter what happened or will happen, he’s still my brother ( he’s still _Stevie_ ). I would follow him anywhere. My purpose was to protect him, I couldn’t blame him for doing what he had to in order to survive WICKED. There was no fighting back here...and the world wasn’t black and white.

A cure. This was for a cure.

It happened in the middle of my shooting practice. Thomas’ voice echoed weakly in my mind and made me pause. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. In fact, every sound had faded out. My body tingled. Numbness spread under my skin and the gun dropped from my hands. I stumbled back, my legs refusing to cooperate. I couldn’t feel my toes -- my knees, my limbs. Someone grasped my shoulder but I barely felt it, everything blurring and distorting.

I was sinking, drowning. My mouth moved to form words but I couldn’t be sure if they ever left my lungs. In fact, I couldn’t even feel my lungs. Was I breathing? Who knew. I didn’t even care.

* * *

 

They’d done something to Thomas. Put some device in his head. They hadn’t expected the process to affect me the way it did, but maybe they should have. When the surgeons had put Thomas under, his stress and the force of the sensations had hit me like a brick. I’d succumbed the same time he had, both of us remaining unconscious for a few hours before waking at the same time.

Whatever they did to him, they did to Teresa and Aris and Rachel as well. It hurt for a bit. A phantom strain in my head. Sometimes I heard stray, random whispers in my mind that didn’t belong to my twin. When I questioned him, he told me that he could now communicate with the other three in his mind.

 _It’s not like what we have,_ he’d told me one day, voice sounding tired and regretful even mentally, _I can’t feel them or their emotions. I just hear thoughts they want to share._

I hated it. It felt a little petty, being jealous, but that’s what I was. What Thomas and I had had _always_ been special, and now it wasn’t even that. I was just an extra piece, a pawn on WICKED’s elaborate chess board.

_I want to see Newt._

* * *

 

I got my wish a few days later, about a week after I’d been separated from Thomas. Group A had a week left before a group of them were being sent into the Maze, Newt and Minho included. I hated that they would be some of the first, that they’d end up being some of the few who spent the longest trapped there. But at least they’d have each other, as well as Alby and Nick.

My door slid open. I sat up from where I’d been dozing on my bed, startled. Thomas stood in the doorway, a finger to his lips.

 _Sh! Don’t say a word._ _They don’t realize I’m doing this._ He told me, gesturing with his hand for me to approach. I did without question, because he was still my brother and I know that no matter what, he’d never lead me into harm on purpose. Plus, I could feel the tension in him easily, and his desire to be stealthy. He really _was_ sneaking around.

We made our way down the hall, feet pattering near-silently against the shiny metal floors. His hand slipped into mine as we turned a corner. I gripped back and sighed quietly. Being away from him for a week had been torture, no matter how disoriented and mad I’d been. Never had we been separated for so long -- it only made my fear of the Maze even more potent. Who _knew_ how long we’d be apart for?

I recognized where we were going once we entered a familiar hall.

 _Group A?_ I asked, side-eyeing my brother.

 _You wanted to see Newt._ He shrugged, peering around another corner before tugging me along further. _And I know he’s your best friend, but he’s one of my close friends too. I want to do something for him, because he deserves it._

 _What are you gonna do?_ I almost think I know, but I’m too scared to hope.

Thomas turns to me for a second, amber eyes blazing with a determination I haven’t seen in a while. _I’m gonna take him to see Lizzie._

 _Oh, Thomas…_ I blink furiously, overcome with sudden, crushing relief and affection. He was right, Newt _did_ deserve this. He deserved _so much_ more, but if we could only do this much….

It’d be worth it even if we got caught. At this point, they couldn’t do anything to us without mucking up their plans.

Thomas opened the door to Group A’s wing with a keycard, one he’d stolen from a guard sometime during the day. I was pretty impressed at his dedication and pickpocket skills, and incredibly proud. The door slid open soundlessly, and we crept into the darkened room. It was late, all the boys would be in bed by now, sleeping. Walking through in near darkness was terrifying, but at least we were used to walking the path to Newt’s dorm. It didn’t take long for us to find ourselves standing outside his door. Carefully, Thomas opened the door and relief burned between us when it didn't creak. Not that we really expected it to -- this facility was so high-tech and modernized the idea of a creaky door was practically blasphemous.

The sound of quiet breathing filled the dark, the four boys out cold and sleeping away. The two of us tiptoed in, making our way to Newt’s bed. I was glad he slept on the bottom bunk, it made getting to him much easier. Thomas shook his shoulder gently, the two of us standing beside his bed.

“Wha--?” Newt mumbled, face screwed up in a grimace as he fought to reach wakefulness. He smacked a hand over his face, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Shh…” Thomas hissed, finger pressed to his lips. His voice is no more than a whisper but Newt finally focuses on us. He starts a little, clearly surprised to see us there. In fact, even in the shadows I can see how wide his eyes are. We must paint _quite_ the startling image.

“Tommy? Eddie?” he murmurs, sitting up in his bed.

“C’mon Newt,” Thomas urges, “I got a surprise for you.”

I hold out my hand, eyes pleading. Newt glances from Thomas to me, looking more awake. After a moment, he purses his lips and takes my hand.

* * *

 

Newt and I hold hands all the way to the Group B wing, Thomas a few steps ahead of us. We don’t have the luxury of talking in our heads, and it’s too dangerous to talk out loud at the moment. So we have to be content with shared glances and the heat of our clasped hands. I didn’t want to think about the fact that in just a few days, Newt would be sent up into the Maze.

Neither of us recognize where we are, but Thomas seems to know exactly where he’s going. He walks with as much confidence as a thirteen year old sneaking around a creepy facility can. The door we stop in front of is identical to the one leading to the Group A boys. Thomas opens it with a keycard -- but I’m not sure if it’s the same one from before or a completely different one, and I didn’t care enough to ask. It slides open just as soundlessly as the others, revealing a common room identical to the boys one.

 _She’s in the third dorm on the right._ Thomas tells me, leading the way through the dark room. Newt trembles a little the closer we get, realizing exactly what’s going on. His grip on my hand tightens to the point of pain, his coffee colored eyes wide and disbelieving as they bore into my own. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for us to laugh and turn around.

We don’t. Thomas opens the door to the third dorm on the right. It’s dark inside, a mirror image of the very room we’d pulled Newt from.

 _Wait here,_ Thomas glances at me, then Newt. He holds up his hand in the universal ‘stay’ expression, slipping into the dark room. Newt practically vibrates beside me, his grip on my hand still uncomfortably tight but I make no motion to get him to loosen it. It’s not that bad anyway -- and I can’t blame him for being excited.

Thomas appears from the shadows, making his way through the open door. A girl follows behind him, much smaller and shorter than my twin ( and therefore, me ). Even in the poor lighting I can see the resemblance between her and Newt. They have the same pale, milky white skin and red-tinted honey blonde hair. The shade of orange-gold had always been a beacon in the sea of boys, and Lizzie was no different. Her eyes were more hazel toned though, contrasting with the dark cocoa brown Newt sported. Both also had fair, fairy-like features, although Newt’s face was getting a little sharper as he came upon puberty.

The two estranged siblings looked at each other for a moment, long years of separation making them both wary yet desperate.

 _Let’s give them space._ I tapped Thomas’ elbow and slipped my free hand into his. He nodded in agreement. I leaned into Newt, his attention still on his sister.

“Tommy and I are going to wait in the common room at the end of the hall, alright? Try your best to keep as quiet as possible.” I whispered into his ear, my chin bumping his shoulder. He nodded wordlessly, and I pried my hand from his grip. As soon as I got him to release me, it was like he’d been rebooted. Newt surged forward with arms out and scooped up Lizzie in his arms, her own gangly limbs wrapping around him with equal fervor.

Thomas glances at them with obvious curiosity as I usher him down the hall back where we came from. _Nosy_ , I scold gently, to which he smiles at me sheepishly. We pause back in the common room, hearing only faint wisps of Newt and Lizzie’s conversation. In sync, the two of us lean against the wall, our clasped hands dangling between us. The silence is suffocating. I feel too hyped, my heart in my throat. What we’re doing is dangerous, but it brings me such _joy_ that I can’t even be bothered to care about possible repercussions.

 _Thank you, Stevie._ I knew he’d been more supportive of WICKED’s goals lately, but sneaking around like this convinced me that he was still the same brother I adored. He’d never be as cold-hearted or clinical as the adults here, no way.

 _Why’re you thanking me?_ He sounded amused. _Even if you hadn’t wanted to see Newt I would have brought him to see his sister. It’s common human decency...and he’s my friend._

_Stevie, they would have put him in that Maze without a second thought to his and his sister’s feelings. You’re the only one in WICKED with common human decency._

He’s quiet for a moment, obviously contemplating my words. Logically, Thomas knows that WICKED sees us more as test subjects than actual children, he just doesn’t like to think about it. But I feel the reluctant and despairing acceptance lance between us and it almost makes me sad. He’s so desperate for a cure, so desperate to believe that what WICKED is doing will be worth it. But his morals continue to make him question their actions. Good.

 _I have to believe we can find a cure. I have to believe that we can do it and no one will get hurt._ He finally says, tilting his body to the side to rest against my own. His head finds my shoulder, the weight of the world on his young mind.

 _I want a cure as much as you do, Stevie._ I begin, mulling over his words, _But if it comes down to harming all of us for only the **possibility** of a cure, or all of us surviving for humanity --- I’m going to pick us. If it’s too late for the world, there’s no reason to destroy the only people who can actually live in the aftermath._

 _I hear you, Mikey._ He sags further against me. _I hear you._

* * *

 

Newt comes back to us crying. He stands at the hall entrance for a moment, observing the two of us with silent tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks, before leaping forward and crashing into us. Thomas and I grunt a little under the force of his limbs as he embraces us with a trembling breath and a quiet, “Thank you.”

We hug him back just as fiercely, silent for a long moment as we graciously ignore the little, hitching sobs that leave Newt’s lips.

“C’mon then,” Thomas finally says, pulling back and letting Newt cling to me. “Let’s get back before we’re caught.”

Newt nods against my shoulder, breathing in deeply before standing up straight. I can see him visibly pull himself together, scrubbing his sleeve across his eyes and nose. We all trudge out the main sliding door, Thomas peeking around the low-lit hall for any personnel. Newt slips his hand into mine when we step out into the hallway, his bloodshot gaze heavy on the floor. I don’t know what him and his sister talked about, but Newt looks both better and worse after the experience. It had obviously been good to see her and hug her and talk to her again -- yet whatever they spoke about must be the reason he looked so downcast. I didn’t want to pry ( I still wasn’t sure I even had the right to ), but the last thing I wanted was for him to enter the Maze _sad_. He deserved to be happy for as long as possible.

The walk back to the Group A wing was almost silent aside from Newt’s occasional heavy breath. Honestly, I expected us to get caught; we’d used up enough luck just getting to the Group B wing, and we almost never caught a break normally. To our collective shock, the three of us made it back all the way to the Newt’s dorm without incident.

“Tommy, Eddie,” Newt whispered as we stopped outside the door to his shared room. “I seriously can’t thank you enough for that.”

“Don’t mention it, really.” Thomas shrugged, “It wasn’t right that they wouldn’t let you see her.”

“And I didn’t do anything,” I murmur, “Tommy was the mastermind, he just picked me up for the ride.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Newt shakes his head, “I’m glad you’re here anyway.”

“Well, I certainly couldn’t come alone,” Thomas pokes my side, tone teasing, “After all, Eddie here kept moping around and complainin’ about missin’ you.”

“Shut up,” I roll my eyes, swatting at Thomas’ prodding hand. “You have your dumb friends when you work, I’m alone all the time.”

The truth to that statement makes Thomas drop his teasing, mouth twitching into an awkward grin. He doesn’t know how to take my response. I shake my head, signalling to him that it’s fine. My humor has always been a little off-putting….though I hadn’t really been joking.

“Well, ‘m glad you wanted to see me.” Newt whispers, eyeing us with amusement. He looks a little better, that hollow look gone from his face. It’s sure to return once we’ve left his presence, and I dread that moment. “I know we’re on a bit of a time constraint, but could I talk to Eddie for a moment?” Newt addresses Thomas, hands shoved in his pant pockets.

My brother sighs, but there’s a grin on his face, mischievous and knowing. “Yeah, yeah, I see who’s the favorite twin here! You can kiss him goodbye in peace, I’ll be over there.” My brother points toward the common room before stepping away and giving Newt the ‘I’ve got my eye on you’ gesture, two fingers pointing from his own eyes to Newt’s form and back.

I roll my eyes, turning away from my ridiculous brother to face my best friend. He doesn’t even look phased by the teasing, which means he’s feeling serious.

“What’s up?” I ask, voice low. I’m dreading the moment he says goodbye.

“I wanted you to know that it means a lot to me, our friendship.” his eyes meet mine, surrounding skin still puffy from his crying. “I dunno what’s gonna happen next, so I just...I needed you to know that even if our relationship isn’t exactly normal, I’ll always think of you as my best friend.”

“Newt,” I choke, hating how truly _final_ this feels.

“You told me things you didn’t tell anybody else. You leaned on me and listened to what I said whenever I spoke -- ” his breath hitches and his voice breaks, eyes misting, “You made me feel special, and I wish we had more time -- because I haven’t made you see that you’re special too, Eddie. You’re special to me and to everyone here.”

I hate crying. I hate how I look when I do it and how weak it makes me feel to have someone witness it, but I can’t stop the tears from spilling down my face at his earnest words. He’s talking like we’re never going to see each other again, and I’m hit with the very sudden realization that this _could_ be the very last time we do. These could be the last words he says to me.

But Newt is crying too now, still finding tears to expel despite the crying he’d already done. “When WICKED found my sister and I, they killed my parents in front of us just to take us away. I’d never felt so helpless and weak in all my bloody life,” his words catch in a sob, “I’m supposed to be the strong one, I’m supposed to take care of her! But when we talked tonight I broke down like a _baby_ and she had to comfort _me_! I’m still weak, Eddie! I can’t do anythin’ and my own sister knows it. I’ve never been good enough for this place, I’ve never belonged here -- christ, Eddie, _I’m not even immune!_ ”

“What?” The world tilts. I’d been shocked and overwhelmed at his words, furious at the death of his parents and the way he felt about himself -- but his last exclamation swept the rug from under my feet. “You -- you’re what?”

“I’m not immune, Eddie.” there’s a wild look in Newt’s eyes, “I’ve always known, _they’ve_ always known. I don’t know what the bloody _fuck_ I’m doing here!”

“No,” I can barely hear my own denial, weak as it is. My hands shake and I can barely breathe. When was the last time I’d been gripped by such terror? The faces of the Cranks I’d killed filtered through my mind, black veins and putrid, dark blood -- but suddenly they were all Newt. His delicate features twisted into a snarl, black liquid spilling from his mouth and chunks of his gorgeous, gold-toned hair falling out in clumps.

Before I could fully process it, I threw myself forward and wrapped my arms around him, nose pressed to the rapid pulse in his neck. His heart was still beating and his lungs still heaving. There weren’t any black, creeping spider veins under his paperwhite skin. _Not yet._

Newt made a startled noise before reflexively returning my impromptu embrace. His nose buried against the side of my head. We rocked in place for a moment as he got his balance back.

“It doesn’t matter why you’re here,” I whisper against the hollow of his neck and shoulder, “Better here than out in the Scorch by yourself. And we -- we’re looking for a cure. If -- when we find it, I promise...Newt, I promise I’ll get it to you no matter what. I’ll tear the world apart if I have to.”

“You...you’d do that for me?”

“Newt,” I grip the back of his shirt tightly, furiously blinking in vain to slow my tears, “You’re my best friend. You make this place bearable, you make everything better -- do you understand? You’re important to me, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“What if we don’t find a cure?” he breathes his fear into the air, ruffling strands of my hair.

“We will.” I say sternly, gritting my teeth. Everything I’d thought about WICKED was suddenly thrown into disarray, because now what happened to us mattered far less. Any pain would be worth getting a cure….worth saving Newt. How many other kids weren’t immune? Were Thomas and I even immune? Was WICKED just lying to us about _anyone_ being immune?

I had to believe that there _were_ immunes, and that Thomas and I were safe. I could only handle one world-shattering problem at a time.

“It’s okay to be scared, Newt.”

He huffs, bony fingers digging into my back. “It just seems like that’s all I ever am.”

I take a deep breath, commiting the scent of clean linen and salt and sunshine to memory. “Well, you’re not alone in that. Don’t ever think you are -- I’m scared, okay? I’m terrified. I’ve _been_ terrified for years -- I can barely remember what it feels like to _not_ be. That doesn’t make you weak, Newt. Just human….just _alive_.”

“Okay,” he sobs quietly, “Okay...”

 _We have to go._ Thomas’ reminder is solemn, my emotions and thoughts probably leaking between us.

“I gotta go, Newt.” I whisper, reluctant to part from him while he’s so fragile.

“Yeah,” he nods jerkily, loosening his hold and pulling away a little. “Before you get in trouble.”

I recall what he said about saying goodbyes. No matter what, this will _not_ be our last meeting, I refuse to let it be so. Newt still needs the cure, he needs to survive.

“See you later, Sammy.” I say instead, giving him his old self back for a final time. Maybe when we get out of here for good he’ll take up the name again. Maybe we all will.

“See you later, Michael.” his smile is bittersweet.

It still feels like a goodbye.

* * *

 

“Did you know?” I ask Thomas, when we’re parting for the last time that night, him lingering in the doorway of my room. He doesn’t ask me what I’m talking about, we both know what’s on my mind.

“No. But I,” he swallows, “I suspected that WICKED was taking more than just immunes. Some of the scans from certain kids looked _different_.”

We’re silent. Thomas doesn’t move despite the continued danger we’re in with him remaining here. It feels like there’s a storm crackling in the air, lightning in the space between us. Every thought and feeling burns.

“You do _whatever_ you have to.” I mutter, jaw clenched. Maybe I’d regret this, putting my faith in WICKED and their aspirations. But I was desperate, and if Thomas could help them find a cure I’d forgive him for aiding them. No matter _what_ he had to do.

“I swear.” his eyes blaze, gold in the dim light. He wants to save Newt too, and whoever else in their group of friends that wasn’t immune.

“Then get outta here,” I shoo him away, slouching onto my bed. Exhaustion overcomes me the second my body hits the sheets. I’m drained emotionally, which is so much worse than physical tiredness. Thomas nods, a motion I feel more than see, and leaves, the door shutting behind him with just a click.

* * *

 

“Eddie.”

The voice of Ava Paige is a familiar one. She works for WICKED so I’ve never been her biggest fan, but she’s more tolerable than most. She’s earnest in her desire for a cure, despite crushing morals underneath her heel, and that’s what I need right now. I’ve considered that WICKED could have possibly done this on purpose, put non-immunes with immunes so they’d form bonds — then reveal that if a cure isn’t found their friends would die. It was definitely a motivator. But as far as Thomas and I knew, none of the children realized there were non-immunes in their midst. Newt had been aware of his status through mere accident.

“What.” I respond, voice flat. Even if I now want a cure as desperately as she does, it doesn’t mean I have to like her. She and all the Doctors here at WICKED just rubbed me the wrong way, and I couldn’t forget that they’d killed Newt and Lizzie’s parents.

“We’re sending you into the Maze,” she begins, “But not as soon as you may be expecting.”

I tap my fingers against the steel tabletop, glancing around my room. It had only been three weeks, but it felt hollow and barren without Stevie beside me. They were weaning us off each other, trying to make it easier for us to prepare for our inevitable long term separation. I hated it. Going from practically conjoined to seeing each other maybe an hour a week felt devastating.

“Okay. When _are_ you sending me in?” Because if I couldn’t have Thomas, I’d like to have Newt by my side as soon as possible. This isolation was killing me, despite the fact that I usually preferred it. This felt more like a prison sentence than personal time.

“Five months.” She answers, looking like an angel of death in all white. She’d let us all die if it’d lead to a cure, in spite of her kind features. “We’re sending one of the remaining boys up every month.”

“Exactly how many did you put in already?”

“Twenty.” her lips smile but her eyes remain placid.

I couldn’t even begin to understand what WICKED was doing — why they’d put only twenty in and decided to shove the rest up one at a time. Whatever game they were playing was beyond me and I was _tired_.

“Tell me something.” I sigh, putting my elbows on the table and resting my chin on clasped hands. “Why did you train me and not Thomas? I don’t mind that it was me, not really, but I want to know if there _was_ a reason. I feel like we both should have been trained, he needs to be able to protect himself if I’m not around.”

Dr. Paige watches me for a moment, calculating. She’s never treated me like a child before, and she gives me her full attention like you would an adult.

“We _did_ train the both of you.”

“No,” I shake my head, “I mean physical training— ”

“I know what you meant,” she interrupts. “And I’m saying we _did_ train the both of you.”

“I don’t understand — if you’d trained him I would have known.” No matter what, we were connected. If he’d faced what I had there would be no hiding it.

“We trained you.” She replies cryptically. “And in doing so we trained him.”

“You’re not makin’ sense.” I tell her, raising an eyebrow and frowning.

“Tell me, how many sections are in the Maze?” Dr. Paige folds her hands in her lap, staring at me with a look I can’t comprehend. I blink, confused. I don’t know anything about the Maze except that it _is_ a maze. A test.

“Eight.” My lips freeze after I utter the number and so does the rest of me. How did I know that? “Uh.”

“You and Thomas are very special.” Dr. Paige offers something of a smile. “We gave him a gun yesterday and told him to disassemble it. He’d never held one in his hands before, but he took it apart in seconds. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? Your minds operate as one. Every brain wave and chemical change is completely _synchronized_. He’s got muscle memory of all the training you have, just none of the experience or muscle to back it up. You have equations and codes and information about the Maze in your head, just out of sight. You could answer any question about it and you don’t even _know_ it — you two are so incredibly _fascinating_.”

I sit back in my chair, hands falling into my lap. The idea is so _strange_ but makes all the sense in the world. This place isn’t normal. _I_ am not normal. Maybe it’s something all twins can do, maybe it’s not. This _is_ the future after all, who _knows_ how humans have evolved, little by little over centuries. It still takes a second for the truth to settle. I chuckle, a little disbelieving and a lot exhausted. This feels like a comic book, like it isn’t real.

“You’re sayin’ if you switched me and Thomas for a day, we’d be able to go about it perfectly fine?” I finally ask, resolving to just accept it for now.

“Thomas doesn’t have the same experience, but he’d know all the movements.” she confirms.

“Okay,” I say, “okay.” I wonder if they’d used our brain scans to figure out how to make Thomas speak telepathically to Teresa, Rachel and Aris. Unless making kids telepaths was more common than I thought.

“We studied the two of you for three years before deciding it had to be _you_ who went through the physical challenges. You always were the more mature twin, and we knew you’d be better suited to dealing with the mental strain than Thomas.” she moves to stand, patting down her crisp, white clothes. I hate her, but she’s right. Thomas was a true child, too young and naive — and I’d never have wanted him to be in my place.

I don’t respond, staring down at the table in contemplation. _Instinct_. Everything we learned was ingrained in the other like instinct. In a way I was glad. Thomas had what he needed to protect himself, even if he’d require a bit of practice to build his strength. But we could work on that, once this was over and we were back together. I had to _hope_ we’d be back together one day. Even if it was years from now. I could wait. He was my brother after all, my twin and my only family.

“Good luck, Eddie.” Dr. Paige placed a hand on my shoulder, touch light and possibly meant to be comforting. Then she turns and leaves, the door swishing shut behind her. I’m left alone in my room, with my single bed and single chair. I’d forgotten how to be just _one_ when I’d been _two_ for so long.

“Guess I’ll need it.” I whisper into the air belatedly, long after Dr. Paige had left. A little luck would go a long way in a place like this.

* * *

 

The next time I saw Thomas, Newt and the others had been in the Maze a whole month. He couldn’t look me in the eye and instead spent the whole time cuddled against my side and looking ill.

“It’s not going well, is it?” I whisper, unable to untangle the venomous coil of emotion within him. There was a lot of stress and fear, and other feelings I had a hard time identifying.

“No.” he answers, short and soft. There is more to say, I can feel it. But Thomas doesn’t open his mouth again, instead clenching his jaw and looking at the wall with a despondent look in his glimmering eyes. He looks on the edge of tears, like he’s holding back breaking down. I wouldn’t care if he did, I’d never judge him for it and he knew that. How old were we now? Thirteen? He was growing up, or trying to. Crying was for children, and children we were not.

Not really.

I’d wanted him to have a normal childhood; friends and _time_ to spend doing whatever he wanted. But time had slipped through my fingers before I’d realized. We were entering our teenage years already. We’d be young adults before I knew it. My little brother wasn’t that tiny, babbling infant anymore, no matter how much I wanted him to be. Things were easier back then.

“Alright.” I let out a breath, running my hand through his messy brown hair. He’d need a haircut soon. As would I. “They’re still…”

“Newt and Minho are alive,” Thomas sniffs, knowing immediately what I’d been trying to ask. His response makes me breathe a little easier. “So are Alby, Nick, Winston ‘n Zart.”

So all our friends were doing okay. I wondered what was going so wrong that made Thomas so troubled. It couldn’t be good. I wanted to know -- badly -- but on the other hand I didn’t. The Maze terrified me. I kept getting flashes of it in my mind, now that I was more aware of the connection Thomas and I shared. Blueprints of it, of pieces that connected to form a monstrous enclosure.

“Good.”

I didn’t want to think about the terrifying structure and size of the Maze anymore. Not when it would be my reality in a few months. _Newt’s there,_ I kept thinking. _Minho’s there._ I used those thoughts as comfort. Whatever happened, I wouldn’t be alone -- and neither would Thomas. He had Teresa and Rachel and Aris, who wouldn’t be entering the Maze either. They could stay in their bubble of safety. I still didn’t like Teresa that much, but I trusted her enough to watch out for Thomas. There wasn’t a specific reason I didn’t like her, we’d just disagreed on methods of finding a cure for so long that now it’d tainted our relationship. Now though, I wanted a cure as badly as she did, but I wasn’t really willing to reconcile our ‘friendship’ because we’d never been close. It might seem cruel or rude, but being her friend wasn’t really high on my list of priorities at the moment.

* * *

 

My training continued, just as rigorous as before. As my time to be placed in the Maze approached, the harder they worked me. Instructor Davis hit harder, moved faster and talked sharper. My bruises had bruises and new scars were added to my surprising collection. Nothing awful, just knife nicks and cuts I’d gotten from weapons training. Getting swiped by a blade wasn’t a feeling I particularly enjoyed, especially when they cut deep enough to scar. The trainers weren’t supposed to hurt me too badly, but fights were pretty unpredictable when weapons were involved.

I traced a scar on my abdomen underneath the spray of cool water. I didn’t usually spend a lot of time in the shower, but I felt a little out of it with exhaustion. My knuckles were bruised once more, twinging painfully whenever I stretched out my fingers. It was familiar pain though, easily ignorable. Nothing in comparison to the newly stitched slice across my left deltoid. The numbing shot I’d been given was beginning to wear off. I had a bottle of painkillers by my bed to use in emergencies ( like the time I’d broken my nose ), and I was planning on taking one before bed. Hopefully it would knock me out for the night. I didn’t need nightmares, not right now.

My sleep had only just begun normalizing. Spending thirteen years sleeping beside someone had spoiled me, I couldn’t settle without a weight by my side or the sound of breathing in my ear. But it had been over two months now of me staying in a separate room from Thomas. I’d begun to sleep a little better, but it still felt like something was missing. I don’t think that feeling would ever go away.

I had less than three months left before being sent into the Maze. Even as time passed, I became no less terrified of the prospect. There were too many unknowns. I was being kept in the dark for a reason, one that I believed largely had to do with my current skill in fighting. They couldn’t afford to have me making a scene and stalling their experiment or whatever if I didn’t agree with what I’d be heading into. As it was, I already didn’t agree with being sent into the Maze, but I wasn’t stupid. I’d be sent there whether I liked it or not -- in here, I was outnumbered. It couldn’t be so bad. What held me together was seeing our friends again. These damn trials had already taken so much from us….I just wanted to see them again. I needed to see for myself that they were okay, because for the first time there was a distinct possibility that they _weren’t_.

When I exited the shower, it took me a minute to remember to take the towel and start drying off. My limbs were heavy with exhaustion, eyes dropping and I realized I was swaying a bit where I stood. Shaking my head, I forced myself awake a little more, just enough to finish drying off and slip into pajamas. Once, I had felt bad about the fact that my exhaustion could be felt through the twin bond. Thomas wasn’t completely affected by it, but it certainly wasn’t a pleasant feeling. But now, we’d grown so used to being worn out that it became something of a nightly expectation. I could feel his own sleepiness in the back of my mind, not as heavy as my own but urging me into bed all the quicker.

 _Goodnight, Mikey._ Thomas says, feeling for a moment like he was right beside me. I glance over to the empty space on the bed, still feeling disappointed when I don’t see him there.

 _Goodnight, Stevie._ I answer back, closing my eyes and falling asleep in seconds.

* * *

 

The day approaches rapidly. You’d think that months would take longer, _feel_ longer. But routine had always made time feel like it was passing faster. I had less than a week left before the Maze now. Newt turned fourteen a few days ago, I wonder if they celebrated. Thomas and I still had about six months until we ourselves turned fourteen, and it would be our first birthday apart. I could always dream and hope that the boys and I would get out of the Maze trials before then, but Thomas had told me that they weren’t even close to figuring it out.

Years, Thomas had said. It could take years for us to get out. I didn’t want to miss seeing my brother grow up, I didn’t want to come out of the maze at -- god forbid -- eighteen or later! To enter a child and exit an adult was my worst nightmare.

I hadn’t seen Rachel or Aris in a long time. Teresa barely left Thomas’ side, so even if we weren’t friends we found ourselves together every once in a while. I tried not to be too bitter about her crashing the few hours a week I was allowed to spend with Thomas. I’m sure my brother felt it anyway. He had mixed feelings about Teresa and I’s tense relationship. On one hand, he also didn’t like her taking up our time together either; but on the other, he liked her enough that he thought our lack of friendship was ridiculous.

As I’ve said, I don’t hate Teresa. But Thomas just doesn’t seem to understand that some people don’t get along. Not everyone has to be friends just because they’re the same age! Her lack of reaction towards some of the experiments WICKED did were unsettling. There was compassion within her, obviously. She wasn’t a bad person, not even close. But I couldn’t really trust her when I knew she’d kill me if it meant finding a cure.

I didn’t want a friend like that. Newt and Minho and the others were all I needed -- I knew they’d have my back no matter what. They might want a cure, but never at the expense of one another.

“Eddie.”

I turn to Thomas, taking a break from working on WICKED’s equivalent of ‘homework’. He’s looking at me with a worried gaze, pencil tapping against the table. His own sheet lies half-finished in front of him.

“What’s up?” I ask, wondering what could be distracting him so much from his work. He’s usually done within moments, the little genius.

“Just….I’m really gonna miss you, ya know?” he bites his lip, skittish. Hiding something.

“I’m gonna miss you too, Tommy.” I eye him, suspicious. He winces, obviously feeling it. Subtlety is not his strong suit. “Don’t worry, I’ll think about you the whole time.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, I can see it in the way his face shutters and his emotions turn icy and frantic. He looks like he’s about to cry, pencil dropping from his slack grip and lips trembling.

The door to my room slides open, a soldier stepping in. It’s time for Thomas to go for the day. He still sits, frozen and staring at me like I’ve devastated him. The soldier barks at him to stand up. He does.

 _Stevie. What’s going on?_ I can’t let him just leave when he looks like that, not without some answers.

 _I’m sorry, Eddie. I’m so, so sorry. Please, keep me in your head -- keep me in your memories!_ The door slides shut, my last glimpse of Thomas is his big, watery brown eyes glancing back to meet my own.

_My memory?_

Thomas doesn’t reply. I can still feel his disorienting sadness and guilt.

_Stevie!_

* * *

 

On the day I’m set to enter the maze, my door sliding open awakens me. My eyes shoot open, startled by the sound of boots against the floor. Sitting up, I see Dr. Paige and two soldiers just inside the door.

“Eddie,” she greets, nodding to me. “Please, get ready quickly. We’ve brought a change of clothes for you, ones more suitable for the Maze.”

I slip out of bed, feeling the cold of the concrete floor even through my socks. In one hand she’s holding folded pants and a shirt, stacked. In the other she’s brandishing a pair of gray sneakers. They’re sturdier looking than the ones I’ve been used to wearing, meant to last. With a tired nod, I take the offered clothes and shoes from her and make my way into the bathroom to change.

“Don’t take too long.” she reminds me as I shut the door. I don’t give her a response.

My movements are sluggish with sleep, but I tug my pajamas off and dress myself in the new clothes. Tan, cargo-like pants and a muted, scarlet long-sleeve shirt. The shirt had seams like a baseball tee, but was all one solid color. It was quite the change from the grayscale attire I’d grown accustomed to over the years, in fact it was the most colorful clothing I’d seen in _ages_. I slipped the shoes on last, before standing and turning to the mirror. I looked….less tired than expected. My skin was a little pale and there was a light bruise across my cheek bone, but at least the bags under my eyes had receded. Actually, now that I think about it, I didn’t look too bad at all. I’d had worst days, and at least I wasn’t _covered_ in bruises from training. Almost everything was healed, as they’d stopped teaching me almost two weeks ago. Most of my time had been spent with Thomas, up until our last interaction a few days ago.

I splashed some water on my face, staring into mirror-me’s gold-brown eyes. My face was sharp from training, baby fat having faded faster than others ( though not completely, it still settled around my cheeks a little ). My jawline was prominent, and there was a collection of moles and freckles scattered across my face almost artfully. My eyelashes were long and dark and framed my favorite part of myself ( and of Thomas ). My eyes. Even in this body I didn’t feel comfortable, too self-conscious and lacking self-esteem, but even I couldn’t fault the stunning color of Thomas and I’s eyes. I wasn’t _unattractive_ \-- it was the opposite actually. Though I’d yet to grow in to all my features and body as a whole. It felt weird complimenting myself, but since Thomas shared the same face I supposed it could count as mere observation.

It was a little weird. I’d been average in my other life, at least I’m pretty sure I was. ( Who knew, with the state of my self-love. ) Now I was barrelling towards the realm of _pretty boy_ and the only reason I was seeing and accepting it was because _this was a different body._ I’d long since accepted my rebirth, but seeing these new features still made me realize exactly _how_ different I was now.

I left the bathroom. Dr. Paige offered me a small smile and led me from the room. I walked beside her, the two guards trailing behind us. I wondered why they were needed — it’s not like I’d actually try to attack her, no matter how much I hated WICKED. I needed that cure for Newt, therefore I needed her. She ran this whole operation as far as I knew.

“Worried I’ll try to run?” I mutter, side-eyeing her. Her heels clack against the floor, the only sound aside from three sets of muffled footsteps.

“We’re prepared for any reaction.” Is all she says.

“I’m not going to.” She looks at me as I speak, our pace staying consistent. “Newt needs the cure, so I have to do this.”

She doesn’t seem surprised that I know of Newt’s non-immune status, perhaps she thought Thomas had told me, or that I’d gotten the info just from our shared brain waves or whatever. There’s no way she could have known that Newt himself had told me though.

“When we find a cure, you’ll give it to him.” I state, tone hard. I’m not asking for her permission. “After what you’ve done to us all, you owe him.”

“When we find a cure, he’ll be among the first to receive it.” She looks at me with a kind, indescribable expression. I know she’s not truly a bad person, not really. There is compassion there, and she takes no joy from our pain. I don’t trust her, but I know in this moment I can believe her words.

“Good.” I say, nodding my head. “I’ll hold you to that.”

We enter a room that seems familiar to me, yet I’ve never stepped foot inside it. It must be somewhere Thomas has been, and frequently enough for it to make an impression. There are futuristic tables -- or are they desks? -- that are made of clear glass with holographic data, graphs and monitoring screens displayed on them. _Very Tony Stark._ And in the back, all along the wall, is an entire row of metal and glass cylinders, each one big enough to fit a person inside and a little more. One of them is open.

“Please step inside, Eddie.” Dr. Paige instructs, and the two guards shift to attention. They’re preparing for me to resist. It doesn’t help settle my nerves. I wonder if it’s a chute of some sort, or a mini elevator. I can’t fathom what it’s for, but the sight of it fills me with some strange trepidation.

 _For Newt._ I think, and take one step and then another. When I reach the cylindrical container, I glance back at Dr. Paige. Her lips are pursed but her expression in encouraging. It’s not the face of a woman sending me to my death ( not yet ) but she could merely be deceiving me. I step inside. She closes the door behind me, and I can still make her out through the glass. She walks over to the row of desks and begins swiping at the monitors and tapping her fingers against it. The container I’m in makes a whirring noise, like it’s powering up. I step back a little, back brushing the other end of the cylinder. I glance around, heart rate picking up.

“Subject A3, ready for the Swipe.” Dr. Paige’s voice is muffled through the glass and metal.

_Mikey, listen to me._

I blink, breathing deeply, confused by Dr. Paige’s words but distracted by Stevie’s voice in my head. Something makes a bubbling noise at my feet. When I look down I can see liquid shooting from small holes around the base of the container. Are they -- are they trying to drown me?

 _You’re not going to die._ Thomas insists, but he sounds so heartbroken, even in his mind.

 _What’s happening, Stevie?!_ Inwardly, I’m panicking. I’ve always hated water -- more specifically the ocean, or bodies of water that lacked visibility. ‘Fear of the Unknown’ they called it, which is why I hated the dark, too. This liquid, already up to my knees, wasn’t dark. It was crystal clear. But the idea of being submerged was still a terrifying one and I’m pretty sure the door was locked. No way out. There wasn’t really a lot of room to move in here either, the size making the water seem like it was rising quickly. It probably was.

_You’re not going to drown. It’ll feel like it, for a moment. But you won’t, trust me. It’s not actually water, it’s something else._

_What’s it going to do to me?_ There had to be a reason for this.

 _I’m sorry Eddie, I’m so, so sorry._ His words were filled with so much guilt and desperation that it startled me. _You’re going to forget._

 _I-I don’t understand._ I blink, the water is passing my waist. The panic begins to take hold, my arms shooting out to brace against the curved glass walls. My chest heaves.

_They’re -- They’re taking your memories, Mikey. You’re gonna forget everything._

I gasp, hands splashing down into the liquid briefly. _No, no they can’t! Stevie!_

Is this what he’d been hiding from me!? Betrayal burned deep in my mind, disbelief a close second. Had -- Had all our friends been wiped and placed into the Maze? Had I lost my best friend without even knowing?

 _I wanted to tell you! I swear! I wasn’t allowed to, I couldn’t --- I couldn’t let you fight back. Not against them. You’d only get hurt. Mikey, please!_ Thomas pleads, needing so desperately for me to understand.

 _I don’t know what to think, Stevie!_ I all but scream in my head, beginning to shake a little in terror as the liquid laps my chest. _You -- You kept me in the dark! You’re my_ twin _!_

_I don’t care if you hate me forever, or if -- if you can’t even remember me. I love you. I love you so much, Michael. You’re my brother and you mean everything to me._

The liquid brushes my chin and continues to rise, I float a little on my toes, keeping my head afloat as long as possible. No matter what, Thomas is still my brother and I’d sworn to forgive him, forgive whatever he did to find a cure. But this was the last thing I was expecting. It was almost too much. _And yet._ If this was the last memory I’d make, knowing of him, then I can’t waste it.

_I love you too, Stephen. I always will. Whatever happens -- just….know that I do._

He’s crying now, I can feel the sting in his eyes and tension in his throat. Thick regret and aching sadness is cloying, spinning between us. _Please -- oh, please, remember me. Don’t forget me! I don’t want you to!_

 _Stevie_. I say his name as the water covers my head and the tank is filled completely. _Stevie, see you later._

I don’t want to forget him. For maybe a minute I last before my chest begins to ache from holding my breath. I want to scream and bang my fists against the glass, beg and plead to be released. But I don’t. My limbs twitch and so does my body, curling slightly in on itself. I’m terrified. Drowning isn’t how I want to go. It’s pure instinct for the human body to resist drowning to the point of passing out. I am no different.

_My name is Michael. I have a twin brother named Stephen, he’s a few minutes younger than me. We had parents once. They loved us. My best friend’s name is Newt. He’s not Immune._

My head aches, my lungs burn. It’s so _painful_ , holding my breath for so long, unwilling to submit and take that one, single breath. I thrash in the liquid, kicking and lashing out with my limbs. I’m scared, I’m so fucking scared!

_My name is Michael. I have a twin brother named Stephen, he’s a few minutes younger than me. We had parents once. They loved us. My best friend’s name is Newt. He’s not Immune._

Repeat. Don’t forget. Don’t let it slip away. Everything’s becoming foggy and my insides are on fire. I can’t open my eyes.

_My name is Michael. I have a twin brother named Stephen, he’s a few minutes younger than me. We had parents once. They loved us. My best friend’s name is Newt. He’s not Immune._

My fingers tingle. My toes tingle. I can’t feel myself making movements. It feels like I’m dying.

_My name is Michael. I have a twin brother named Stephen, he’s a few minutes younger than me. We had parents once. They loved us. My best friend’s name is Newt. He’s not Immune._

The world ceases to exist. I barely feel the liquid slip past my lips as my lungs force me to breathe in. Suddenly it’s not painful anymore. It’s peaceful, actually, and I’m wondering why I fought so hard to not breathe in the first place. There’s whiteness creeping in behind my eyelids, bright and ever expanding. I don’t know where I am. I can’t feel my body. Where was I? What was I doing?

_My name... I have a sibling, don't I? Was he older or younger? We had parents once, but everyone has parents. What were they like again? I had….I had someone. Someone special._

I can’t remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANNNNND THERE YOU HAVE IT FOLKS! Time to enter the maze! If you think it’s weird that Thomas would let Eddie go through this, just remember that WICKED has the ability to restore their memories and Thomas knows that after the trials are completed that’s what is supposed to happen. He’s also not aware of how life-threatening the Maze trials currently are, as he’s been kept in the dark a bit by Dr. Paige simply due to his loyalty to Eddie. His love for his twin is a big factor in why he eventually betrays WICKED and ends up in the Maze himself. Just thought I’d let you know, since I’m not going to be writing Thomas’ POV in this story!


	5. Day One, Greenie

My eyes snap open. Liquid surges from my throat and past my lips, I turn on my side and heave to cough it all up. The sound of my gasping breaths is almost noiseless in comparison to the mechanical whirring around me. I push up to my hands and knees, glancing around the dark, boxed area I’ve found myself in.

I have no idea how I got here. I have no idea who I am.

My clothes are damp, halfway to dry. The box is moving upwards, occasionally past lights lining the ( elevator? ) shaft. There are crates and objects surrounding me, and the bray of an animal startles me so badly I smash my knee against the grate flooring. I’ve been tossed in here like cargo!

“Oh, god….” I breathe, barely able to hear my own voice. Not even _that_ sounds familiar. My fingers grip the grating, eyes wide as I take in the dizzying drop below me. My heart hammers in my chest and I feel nauseous just looking at it. I’m suddenly terrified of the possibility of the flooring giving out, or the weird elevator box breaking down and _dropping_.

“No, no no no no,” I whimper, head throbbing. When I try to sit up a bit the motion of the box knocks me on my ass. I scoot back frantically until my shoulders hit the grating wall, squeeze my eyes shut, and breathe in and out to try and stop myself from crying. I don’t like crying. ….I don’t know how I know that, when I can’t remember anything about myself or what happened before this moment. My knees press against my chest and I wrap my arms around them, huddling in on myself. The box is making me motion sick -- or is it my anxiety? Probably both.

The whirring suddenly changes, the lights flashing ominously. The change startles a cry from me and I flatten myself to the bottom of the box when I look up to see a ceiling fast approaching. I don’t want to die here! I don’t even know what’s happening! The box rockets towards the ceiling, drawing a strangled yell from my throat. Just when I think I’m about to crash into it, the box jerks to a halt. I bang my head on the grating and groan, shuffling back onto my hands and knees. An alarm rings out, blaring and impossibly loud. I turn and hunch in on myself, hands clasped over my ears. There’s the sound of moving metal, and I look up to see that the ceiling is not actually a _ceiling_ , but in fact a door of some kind. Light streams through, _blinding_ after the darkness my eyes had adjusted to. I flinch and squint, moving my hands from my ears to shadow my eyes. The sound is gone anyway.

A thump has me flinching again, gaze jerking to the direction it came from. Someone had jumped into the box with me. As my eyes adjust to the stream of light, I make out a ring of people surrounding the edge of the box. They’re all boys.

“Hey, Greenie,” the boy who had jumped into the box calls out, addressing me. He’s got dark skin and a stern expression, his clothes are worn and stained with dirt and sweat. “Up you get.”

I blink at him, bewildered for all of two seconds before I see a tick in his jaw and scramble to comply. I rise to my feet, my knee throbbing a little from when I’d banged it earlier, wringing my hands together nervously once I stand at my full height. The boy jerks his thumb to the edge of the box, obviously wanting me to get out. I glance down demurely, shuffling over to the side and flushing bright red under the gaze of so many eyes.

“Look at this one -- ”

“Bet he’ll klunk himself in two seconds flat!”

“Nah, I bet he’s a crybaby.”

Their comments didn’t help with my rising stress. Shakily, I kept my eyes away from everyone as I heaved myself out of the box, hating the urge to vomit rising in my throat. I had absolutely _zero_ idea what was going on but I already knew I wanted to be a million miles away from _here_ , under all this attention. I couldn't deal with all this, no way. I wasn’t meant for it!

I need -- I needed a buffer of some sort. I needed to be alone, to step back away and figure out my thoughts. I didn’t even know _what_ to think about because I couldn’t remember a _single_ previous thought I’d ever had! Breath came sparingly, silent freak out building in my chest. It became increasingly difficult to get air into my lungs. Was I hyperventilating?

“Alrigh’ greenie?” A boy asks, his voice strange to my ears. He’s got a bemused expression on his face, gold hair glowing in the sunlight. The other boys have moved around me, starting to unload the materials in the box once it becomes apparent that I’m not gonna do much. Did they expect me to run? I’d never get away, there’s too many of them.

Either way, the boy had snapped me out of whatever pit I’d been spiraling down, and for that I was thankful. I already felt overwhelmed and scared, I didn’t need the eyes of many on me making it all worse.

“....I don’t know.” I shrug helplessly, bottom lip shaking a little. I bite it harshly, refusing to cry. “W-What’s a greenie?”

“That’d be you.” It’s the boy from before, the one who’d jumped into the box. “It’s what we call the newbies. Alby.” The last part is what I assume his name is.

My name.

“....I don’t -- ”

“‘S fine,” Alby shakes his head, “No one remembers at first. Welcome to the Glade.”

I ignore the shortness of his tone, glancing around me at the wide enclosure. Because that’s what it is. An _enclosure_. There’s a wide field of grass and forest, an area reminiscent of a village and then a huge garden. All surrounded by huge, towering walls.

“ _What_?” the word leaves me in a punching gasp. I spin in place, tracing the walls with my eyes all the way around until I’m back where I started. I’ve never _seen_ — I gotta stop saying that, not when my memories start approximately five minutes ago. The walls _are_ impressive though, there’s no doubt about that. Impressive and scary.

“Yeah, I think I’ll let Newt take this.” Alby grumbles, eyebrows heavy over his dark eyes. I don’t meet them for long, a little embarrassed at my sudden display of surprise. “I did it last month.”

With that, he trudges away, barking out orders at a few of the boys. He must be someone in charge. Another boy walks up to me and the blonde kid, this one has dark hair and dark eyes. His skin is tanned and his nose is a little crooked, like it was broken and set improperly.

“I’m Nick, the leader around here.” he introduces, holding out a hand. Reflexively, I shake it. He gives me a little grin, eyeing me contemplatively. Then he turns to the blonde. “Newt, you got the Greenie?”

“Yeah,” the blonde ( Newt? Odd name. ) says. “Seems like we got it easy with this one.”

“Just glad he didn’t scream like the last shank.” Nick laughs, then drops a heavy hand on my shoulder, patting it once. “Don’t go crazy or anythin’, ya hear?”

“Uh.” I reply, confused and taken aback. No doubt I’m missing a lot of context here.

“Come on then,” Newt rolls his eyes at Nick before turning to me, his strange voice oddly soothing. “I’ll give you the grand tour.”

* * *

 

The thing I hated most about the Glade, aside from the walls enclosing us, was the heat. The air was incredibly humid and hummed with the sound of insects. It was _just_ edging on uncomfortable territory, but not bad enough that I couldn’t get used to it. Something told me I preferred the cold. Newt walked just a step ahead of me, pointing out various locations and naming them. I barely heard him, feeling a little bad that I couldn’t focus when he was taking the time to show me around.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” He turns to me, pausing in his explanation of the jobs around here. His eyes are a deep shade of umber, like chocolate. I can’t remember if I’d ever had chocolate before. I knew what it was so I must have, right?

I shrug, wringing my hands again. “....guess not.”

There were a lot of questions on my mind, but try as I might I couldn’t bring myself to ask them, too caught up with crippling social anxiety. It was easy enough to see that I wasn’t very good at conversation, and the very thought of saying something that could be even _slightly_ embarrassing seemed like a death sentence. Better to say nothing at all then risk humiliation.

“Right.” Newt eyed me curiously, one hand settling on his hip. He was a little taller than me, but not very filled out. The stained, dark green shirt he wore was a little baggy on him and contrasted nicely with his sunset-toned hair. Newt was all bony limbs and lean muscle.

I glanced down at myself, suddenly realizing I hadn’t the slightest clue what I looked like or even what _age_ I was. I felt old. Newt looked not quite into his teen years, but definitely older than, say, _twelve_? A tween perhaps? He must be just starting puberty, in that strange _kid-to-teen_ phase. If I went by our heights, I was either around his age or just _really_ short.

“What do I look like?” I find myself asking, turning to look up at Newt. His brow is raised and there’s a peculiar expression on his face that makes me blush in embarrassment.

“That’s what you wanna know?” he sounds incredulous yet amused, “Not ‘where are we’, or ‘how did I get here’? Just, ‘ _what do I look like_?’”

“Um,” I avoid his eyes, finding the grass especially interesting. What a lovely shade of green it is. Yep, don’t see grass like that often. I think. Not that I know if I’ve ever even _seen_ grass before. “I-I dunno. Jus’ came to mind is all.”

“You look about my age. Like thirteen or fourteen? Who knows, maybe you’re twelve.” the last part is a little teasing, drawing my gaze up from the grass to the blonde. He’s observing me, scrutinizing. The blush has yet to fade from my cheeks and I feel it heat even further under the constant attention. I seem to not do well in the spotlight.

“Blush like a bloody strawberry, you do.” he comments flippantly, making me shrink a little into my shoulders. “But aside from that you’re a bit pale. Looks like you got smacked in the face real good too, just under your eye.”

I bring my hands up to pat at my face and wince a little when I feel tenderness under my left eye, across my cheekbone. The pressure on it had surprised me more than it actually hurt, it must be close to healing. When I pull my hands away I notice that they’re covered in white lines and marks. Scars.

“Your hair is dark brown.” Newt continues, eyes tracing my features lazily. “You’ve got some freckles or moles or whatever,” he shrugs, “and your eyes are brown, too.”

“Like yours?” I actually manage to say while looking into said deep brown eyes.

“I -- ” he pauses, squinting. “Maybe? Don’t really know the shade of mine, now do I?”

“Like...chocolate.” I murmur, flickering my gaze away. “Dark.”

Newt purses his lips, chuckling. “Poetic, aren’t you?”

I bite my lip and wish to be anywhere but here, unable to tell if he’s teasing me or not. Newt makes a small sound and jerks his head to urge me to follow him as he starts moving again. I almost trip catching up to him, resuming my pace of staying one step behind him and to the side. He rolls his eyes and drops back a little so we’re walking side by side, his shoulder brushing my own briefly.

“I guess,” he suddenly continues, “Your eyes aren’t like mine. They almost look gold.”

Gold. I smile unconsciously, weirdly happy. That sounds nice -- I wish I could see them.

“Ok,” I nod, for some reason at ease now that I know what I look like. I don’t know why my own features mean so much to me -- or rather, why it feels like something’s missing when I think about it. “And, um, the other questions you mentioned?”

“Right, right,” Newt sighs, the sound drawn out and a little tired, yet he still offers a kind smile before he begins to speak.

* * *

 

Once I’ve been given the ‘Welcoming Speech’, I’m allowed to wander around on my own, probably to orient myself and gather my thoughts. Newt had told me that I was only the fifth boy to show up, but the previous four hadn’t reacted nearly as calmly as I had. I wasn’t sure about the calm thing -- it’s just that _my_ freak out was all internalized. Two had run and ended up in the ‘Slammer’ until they calmed down, another had sobbed for hours and the last one, right before me, had started yelling and screaming at everyone, lashing out in anger and fear. Of course, they had all adjusted pretty well by now, it seems the routine of this place was soothing, and we were all in the same boat so it was no use lashing out at the other boys.

Newt said twenty of them had woken up in the Glade five months ago, all of them with no memory and no explanation. It had been a madhouse. Boys fought and despaired -- some running into the maze or attacking one another. It took weeks to establish order, to settle everyone down once they’d all realized that they were stuck here with only each other. Two other boys had come up before they’d even gotten _close_ to setting the groundwork for their new lives. When the third came up they began to realize it was a pattern. One boy a month. It also meant that someone was putting us all here deliberately and possibly watching our every move. The Maze didn’t just appear, it was _built_. We were here for a reason, one none of us knew.

The trip to the Deadheads was my least favorite spot on our tour. The forest was dark and the graves smelled, flies buzzing obnoxiously over sloppily but thoroughly covered bodies. Corpses. Boys had died already, in the first few months. Of the twenty that first arrived, only fourteen remained. Three had gone into the Maze and never come back ( George, Newt said, had been the first to ever be stung by a Griever, and the first to ever see one ). One had killed himself. The other two….they got into a fight so bad that one had _died_ and the other was shoved into the Maze overnight. No one survived a night in the Maze. They’d only been able to bury three bodies.

There were three rules here. One, do your part. Two, never harm another Glader. Three, never, _ever_ go into the Maze. After what Newt had told me, I wasn’t eager to break rule three in the slightest. Nick and Alby watched over the boys with an iron fist, but it was effective in keeping the peace. No one had any real animosity towards each other anyway, not when ( as I’ve said ) we were all in this together. It just took time to settle down.

The “Do Your Part” rule was what I was currently worried about. Newt said I’d spend about a week circulating through the jobs they’d designed to see which one suited me best. They’d come remarkably far in the five months they’d been here, but I suppose it was a matter of adapting to survive. The alternative was falling to ruin and dying, so what else could they do? Still, I found myself in awe of the life they’d built here. Though, I had no idea what I was good at. The jobs Newt had only mentioned briefly, as their titles were pretty self-explanatory. I knew I didn’t really want to be a Slicer or a Bagger, the idea of killing animals in the Blood House made my stomach churn and dealing with dead bodies would drive me crazy.

I tried desperately to try and recall something, _anything_ that could tell me what I might possibly be good at but I was getting nothing. Whoever sent us up here didn’t play around with erasing memories, did they?

I kicked a twig, making my way slowly through the outskirts of the Deadheads. As long as I didn’t traverse too deeply into the wooded area and stayed away from the graves, it was actually pretty nice. I liked the shade the trees provided, a welcome relief from the glare of the sun.

The Glade was in the shape of a square. Four doors in the walls, one on each side. Looking at it all made my head hurt a little. The space we were ‘given’ was large though. Big enough to easily house the nineteen boys ( including me ) that currently resided here, and likely many more. There were buildings the boys had obviously not made, that Newt said were already here when they’d arrived. The Homestead was a huge two-story house of sorts, the first floor a kitchen and dining area and the second had a few rooms. Presumably those were bedrooms, and each one had a couple hammocks. Soon that wouldn’t be enough, if more boys kept showing up. It was already tight. Gally, who was in charge of the Builders, was already working on constructing a sort of _canopy_ area, which basically was a roof with strong enough supports to keep it and hammocks up. No walls, but apparently it never rained here so the elements wouldn’t be much of a problem. The bugs though, those could pose an issue. I wondered if they had bug nets or enough cloth to make pseudo walls or curtains. I hoped so.

Sometimes the box brought up supplies they’d specifically asked for, like certain clothing items or more blankets. Clothes were kinda treasured around here. The boys were growing fast, and many of them didn’t fit in the clothes they were initially given. I wasn’t surprised to hear this, but it probably meant that the community laundry area had clothes that could fit me whenever I wanted to change, since everyone just kinda threw it all in together. There wasn’t any special attachment to clothing here, it wasn’t important enough.

I leaned against a tree, looking out into the wide, green space before me. This place was nice...but it didn’t feel _right_. Something had felt off the entire time I was here. A phantom pain. Like I’d lost a limb, except I had all of them ( I counted ). _Something’s missing_. More than just my memories.

I don’t know what it is.

Perhaps it’s my name? I still hadn’t remembered it, but Newt assured me that it’d come to me within a few days at most. The same had happened to all of them. I hoped it was a nice name.

“Greenie!”

A shout drew my attention. As far as I knew, I was the current ‘Greenie’, so it was me being addressed. It’s a boy with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes. He waves at me, a big smile on his face as he beckons me over. I’m reluctant to part from the shade and anxious about approaching someone I don’t know -- but I’m more fearful of upsetting him by refusing. So I make my way over, certain I’m frowning a little once the full force of the sun hits me once again.

“I’m Ben,” he says once I’ve meandered close enough. He’s wearing ripped shorts and a blue shirt that’s a size too big. “You doin’ alright?”

Everyone seems to be asking me that. I suppose it’s a reasonable question considering the circumstances, but I don’t seem to be a fan of repeating the same answer to the same question.

“Yeah,” I shrug lightly, scuffing the grass with my shoe. “‘S a lot, I guess.”

“You could say that,” he huffs a laugh, before gesturing to the Homestead. “Anyway, just wanted to tell you that dinner’s gonna be ready soon. Didn’t want you to be left out here on your lonesome.”

“Oh,” I say, oddly touched, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he says, smiling and shaking his head. We make our way towards the Homestead, and I just now realize how late it’s actually gotten. The sun is beginning to slip behind the towering walls. “I don’t think it’s good to be alone out here anyway, not after, uh, finding yourself in this situation.”

I blink, before I’m hit with realization, “Oh…. _oh_ , no. Uh, yeah, no. I-I’m not planning anything drastic. I just….needed some time to take it all in.”

“Good that,” Ben says, looking a little relieved and a lot awkward. “The last kid was so spittin’ mad we had to lock him up for like a _week_ before he calmed down. We were close to banishin’ him, honestly.”

Talking with Ben is easy. He gives off a very neutral vibe that makes it hard to be uncomfortable, so I find myself loosening up a bit as we come upon the Homestead. It’s bustling with activity already, the sound of many boys crammed together coming from inside. Ben steps inside and I follow, hunching in on myself again as I take in the appearance of all eighteen of the other boys in once place.

I feel like I’ve done more talking today than I’m comfortable with, I can already feel the desire to turn around and run building inside me. Luckily, everyone is busy enough that they don’t seem to notice me sneaking behind Ben’s taller frame.

It’s scary, looking at all the tables filled with boys and wondering where on earth I’ll sit. Ben casts me an amused glance, taking note of the terror on my face.

“You’re like a _doe_.” he laughs, “Big-eyed and skittish.”

I don’t know if that’s an insult or not, so I don’t reply, but a flush settles over my cheeks. Did he really have to compare me to a baby animal? ….Though he wasn’t really wrong, I was definitely ‘skittish’, and I guess I’d have to take his word about the state of my eyes.

“You can sit with me and the builders tonight.” he offers, nodding over to a table with two other boys. “Gally and Doug.”

I didn’t know which boy was who, but one had angry looking eyebrows, dirty blonde hair and green eyes and the other was stocky, with brown hair and blue eyes. There was no reason to say no, and no unoccupied table for me to sit at by my lonesome, so I followed Ben over.

“Hey, Greenie!” the blue-eyed one greeted, a welcoming smile on his face. The chipper attitude was a great contrast to the grunt and look of disinterest I received from the angry looking one.

“....hello.” I sit down beside Ben, voice barely heard over the noise of the other boys.

“I’m Doug.” the happy one continues, clearing up the names. “I gotta say, you’re only the fifth boy to come up in the box, but you’re already my favorite. I hope the rest are all as quiet as you -- that last guy was a doozy.”

“Billy’s a weird shank, but he’s calmed down.” Ben interjects, and I realize that ‘Billy’ must be the guy Ben was talking about before. The crazy screaming one.

“Yeah, ‘cept now he’s a _Bagger_ and it’s creepy.” Doug wrinkles his nose. “Watchin’ over the bodies ‘n staring at us all from near the doors.”

Baggers were the guards of this place. They made sure no one went into the Maze, no one escaped the Slammer, _and_ they dealt with the corpses. Bodyguard-gravedigger hybrids. Of course, there was apparently only Billy on the job. No one else wanted to do it. There were only nineteen of us now anyway and other jobs to do.

“What’d Newt start ya on?” Doug asked, turning the table’s attention on me. “For day one of the test phase?”

Seven jobs so far, so I’d test one a day for a week. I didn’t want to be a Runner, I knew that much, and Newt said I could turn it down if Nick offered a spot. The Maze _scared_ me. It _intrigued_ me. I was terrified of those conflicting feelings, because at times they didn’t feel like my own, more like….echoes?

_Something’s missing._

“S-Slicer.” I’m not looking forward to it. In fact, just thinking about what happens in the Blood House makes me ill. The were looking to gain a Slicer too, seeing as the only other one was the _Keeper_ , a boy named Winston.

The boys laugh a little as my face turns green, Gally even giving some semblance of a smile. There would be nothing worse than being made to skin animals as a job, and I was a bit scared that I’d suck at everything else and be forcefully assigned there.

“Don’t worry,” he says, gruff, “I can already tell you’re not Slicer material.”

“...is it obvious?” I mumble, unable to hold eye contact for long.

“Greenie, your face turned _white_.” Ben laughed, head in his hands.

“I-I just don’t like the idea of hurting animals….” I complain, lips twitching into a faint smile. The bubbly mood is contagious.

“Well, if you’re a goody-goody, bein’ a _Bagger_ is proba--” Doug is cut off when a shout rings across the room. A broad, stocky boy with dark skin and short, tightly curled hair stands near a table, placing out plates of food. Another boy, olive-skinned with black hair and near black eyes, is beside him doing the same.

“Come and get it, ya shanks!” the dark skinned boy hollers, hands on his hips.

“That’s Siggy -- or _Frypan_ as we like to call him,” Ben says as we all stand, moving to get in the line that’s forming before the table to food. “The kid next to him is Jim, they’re the two who cook for us.”

That’s impressive. Two boys feeding eighteen -- now nineteen -- mouths three times a day? They certainly had their work cut out for them.

Dinner was a lively affair. The food was decent enough, especially seeing as it was made by two boys no older than 14. I didn’t eat much, half because by stomach aches from anxiety and half because people kept trying to get my attention. _New kid syndrome_. The Builder trio seemed to find my discomfort amusing, but would occasionally offer me sympathetic glances.

“It’ll be over soon, Bambi.” Ben says, half laughing while patting my back.

“Bambi? Really?” I ask, deadpan. I feel far more comfortable now with these three boys. It’s a little odd that I can recall fairy tales and stories, but not anything substantial about where I came from. It was all stories and items, no locations or anything. Newt’s voice was different from ours, which logically meant he was probably from a different place than the rest of us originally. But I didn’t know where. I couldn’t even tell you where I was from. I knew what a country was, but not the name of a single one. We lived on Earth, but I couldn’t tell you a single fact about it or describe what it looked like. It was blue, right?

“I _did_ say you looked like a baby deer.” He’d said _doe_ actually, but I didn’t correct him. Doug snorted across from me, beaming widely.

“Oh man, you totally do!” he smacks his hand on the table, “I’m _never_ letting this go!”

“I don’t even know my _actual_ name yet, isn’t it a little early for nicknames?” Not that I really mind. I actually prefer being called ‘Bambi’ over _Greenie_ because at least it’s a name, not a title.

“It’s never too early for nicknames!” Doug exclaims, and Ben nods sagely. Gally scoffs and stuffs another forkful of food into his mouth, wanting nothing to do with the conversation.

“Well,” I sigh, “It’s not awful I guess.” As far as nicknames went this one was pretty nice. I wasn’t sure if it was meant to be teasing, but I didn’t see anything wrong with ‘Bambi’ or being compared to a stereotypically cute creature. Truthfully, it was a compliment.

“Then it’s official.” Doug sat up, reaching out to tap my shoulders one at a time with one hand, reminiscent of a knighting. “I dub thee, Bambi! Long live the King!”

* * *

 

Twenty hammocks had originally been set up in the second floor of the Homestead, one for each of the original boys. Since six had died, there was an empty one even with the addition of me, so everyone got to sleep indoors for now. Gally, Doug and Ben were still working hard on the canopy project as more boys were expected. At dinner Gally told me they were thinking about converting most of the rooms upstairs into storage areas, as sleeping outside wasn’t too bad and they wanted it to be fair to everyone once the population exceeded twenty.

I wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of sleeping outdoors, but I saw the logic in it. It wouldn’t be fair if only some Gladers got to sleep indoors, and overcrowding was a risk. Plus, according to all three of the Builders, it never rained here. For the five months they’d been here, it had been consistently sunny and cloudless. It was an odd and unnatural concept, which only made me incredibly suspicious.

Then again, I don’t remember ever seeing it rain before, so maybe this was natural. Whatever. I was too tired to keep thinking about the weather. The day had been long, hot and nerve wracking and all I wanted to do was sleep. But first….

“Where’s the bathroom in this place?” I mutter, poking my head outside the Homestead. Earlier, during the tour, Newt had pointed out the communal bathroom and laundry space. Unfortunately I’d forgotten where exactly that was. Nearby, I hoped, because the sun had set and the Glade was very _dark_.

I realize I don’t like the dark very much.

“Hey,” a familiar odd voice calls from behind me. I turn back toward the inside of the Homestead, looking at Newt where he stands mere feet behind me. He hadn’t made a sound upon approach, the sneaky jerk. “What’re you doin’?”

“Uh,” I mumble, tapping my fingers against the doorframe. “L-Lookin’ for the bathroom. It’s -- It’s kinda dark out….”

“Ah,” Newt smiles a little, “Guess I’ll show you then, so you don’t get lost.”

I highly doubted I’d really get lost here in the Glade, but I wondered if everyone in general was unwilling to let me out of their sights. Like I’d told Ben earlier, I wasn’t planning on going crazy or doing something drastic. I couldn’t fault them for being cautious though, after all, one of the Gladers _had_ killed himself. Even if they didn’t know me yet, they still didn’t want me dead. It was heartwarming.

I stepped out of the doorway and into the dark, letting Newt slip past me. He led the way with sure steps, walking a trail only he could see. The bathroom was really just a wooden structure at the back of the Homestead, no door, with a line of wood shower stalls inside. There were only six, and there were also only six toilets, hidden away in their own separate stalls on the wall opposite the showers.

“There’s really running water?” I mused, amazed that a place like this actually had plumbing, no matter how shitty. It’s not something you’d really expect in our situation, but I was grateful for it all the same.

“Yeah, don’t ask me how it works or who set it up, ‘cause I don’t bloody know.” Newt shrugged, taking a few steps in. There’s a rickety looking cabinet against the last wall opposite the entrance, a metal sink on either side. He walks up to it and opens the doors, revealing over a dozen small containers.

“Each kid gets one of these -- a bathroom kit.” He removes one from the shelf and tosses it at me. I fumble with it, but catch it more smoothly than I’d initially thought I would. It’s about the size of a pencil case and when I open it I see a basic toothbrush and a small, unlabeled tube that I hope is toothpaste. There’s also a bar of soap.

“That one came up today with the supplies,” Newt explains, “It’s yours. Brand spankin’ new.”

“Thank you, Newt.” I grin, focused on the items in my hand. I’ve never been more glad to see a toothbrush. At least, I _think_ I’ve never been.

Newt makes a sound that sounds like a laugh, “No need to thank me, Greenie, it’s those Creators that sent it.”

“Yeah, but I like you more than I like them.” Do I sound petulant? Maybe. But I’m a child, so I get a free pass at being an angsty rebel.

“Well,” Newt laughs again, his voice mockingly dry, “I’m certainly glad to hear that.”

He moves to grab another box, presumably his, as he takes out the toothbrush and makes his way to the sink. I catch a glimpse of what looks like writing on his container, making out an ‘N’. It must be his name. Quickly, I move to mimic him, walking up to the other sink. There aren’t any mirrors here, that saddens me a little. Not that I don’t appreciate Newt’s description of me earlier, but I’d like to see my face for myself. The whole not knowing thing bothered me, like it was a part of me I was missing -- more than the memories.

“Ah -- Bambi, here’s where you went!” Doug makes his way into the bathroom, nodding to me and then grinning at Newt. He goes into one of the stalls. A few other boys start to make their way in, starting their nighttime routines of using the toilet or taking a quick shower. I feel a little gross after being out in the sun all day, but the showers were a bit…. _public_ and that made me nervous. Maybe I’d be able to get in early the next morning, before all the boys woke up.

“Ba’mi?” Newt mumbles around his toothbrush, raising an eyebrow. He spits into the sink, toothpaste foam on his lip. “That’s not your name, is it?”

“No,” I shake my head, putting only a little dot of toothpaste on my own toothbrush. It’d probably be smart to conserve the little tube as long as possible. “A nickname. Ben and Doug have taken to calling me that -- apparently I look like a cartoon deer.”

Newt tilts his head, considering, as he runs his toothbrush under the faucet briefly. I start brushing my teeth, aware that other boys need access to the sinks. Spit. Rinse. Repeat. I tuck the toothbrush back in the box, and quickly splash water on my face. Water drips from my face down to my neck, leaving damp spots in the collar of my shirt. I shake my hands of excess water.

“Here.” Newt calls, handing out a worn looking towel. I take it gratefully and dry my face and hands. He nods to a peg on the wall and I obligingly hang it there.

“All done, then?” he asks, shifting on his feet.

“Yeah.” I glance around the bathroom, not _all_ the boys are here but quite a few are. I don’t feel comfortable taking a shower here right now.

“Good that, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

We leave the bathroom, once again traversing into the dark of the Glade. I stick close to Newt, peering into the shadows. The Deadheads look particularly eerie, only highlighted by the moon and the faint glow of lanterns. _Ugh_ , I hated the dark.

“So,” I speak up just as we enter the Homestead. “Will I -- um, will I be able to take a shower in the morning?” _Before starting work_ , goes unsaid but is implied.

“As long as you’re quick,” he shrugs, “We don’t start the work day until after breakfast.”

“....Frypan and Jim, do they get up earlier than everyone?” I furrow my brow, wondering if it’s fair that they possibly get less sleep than everyone else.

“I suppose, but a lot of us just get up around the same time. It doesn’t take too long to make breakfast, it’s just basic stuff.” Newt explains as we make our way up the stairs. The first room on the second floor we pass by, as well as the second. At the third room, he stops. I almost run into his back but catch myself at the last second, taking a step away.

“We have two empty hammocks. One’s in this room, the other is in the last room down the hall.” He ducks in the doorway, glancing back at me. “Which one do you want?”

“....are you in this room?” I ask quietly, glancing from him to the last room just a few paces away. Wouldn’t it be better to stay in a room where I knew someone? Newt wasn’t a bad guy. It was easy enough to be around him and his voice was pretty soothing.

“Yeah.” Newt stops at a hammock. Two of them are already occupied, Nick dead asleep in one and Alby blinking his eyes open to glance at us in the other. He ignores us and turns on his side. Newt points to the Hammock hanging in the corner of the room. “That one’s open, if you want it.”

“Ok.” I step in and make my way over the the offered hammock as Newt slips into his own. Getting into the contraption is less than graceful, but I manage it without making a fool of myself and falling off. Once I’m actually on it, it’s easier to balance and settle down. It’s more comfortable than I thought it would be. Definitely not the greatest, obviously, because it’s a piece of cloth hanging from the ceiling, but it certainly wasn’t horrifically uncomfortable.

I twist a little to get more comfortable and sigh quietly. My eyes crack open when I hear faint footsteps, catching sight of a boy with olive-tanned skin and dark hair. I’ve seen him around a few times during dinner -- I’m pretty sure he’s a runner.

“By the way, Greenie,” Newt suddenly says, his whisper sounding loud in the quiet of the room. The boy who just entered glances at Newt then at me as he slips into his hammock. “Bambi _does_ suit you.”

Nick and Alby do not stir, but the other boy snorts, out of my view now. “ _Bambi_? That’s not -- that’s not your _name_ , is it?”

“Shut up, Minho,” Newt hisses, tone reprimanding, “You’re bein’ too bloody loud!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Minho murmurs, but I can almost hear him rolling his eyes.

“No, it’s not my name,” I whisper, eyes still closed. I’m tired, and the sound of others in the room in comfortable, _familiar_ almost. But something is still missing. Exhaustion makes my words slur a bit. “Jus’ a nickname.”

“Seems a bit girly.” Minho teases, voice more hushed than before.

“How would you know?” I mutter, “Who decided what’s girly and what isn’t?”

Silence. Then a snort.

“He’s got you there, Minho,” There is amusement in Newt’s voice, teasing that’s no longer directed at me.

“Whatever.” Minho grumbles. I hear rustling, one of them shifting in their hammock. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

“Goodnight.” I whisper, like reflex. I feel like I’ve said it a million times before, but to who I don’t know.

“G’night.” Minho echoes.

“Goodnight, Bambi.”

Newt’s words are the last ones I hear that night, unique cadence ringing in my head. Why is it that I feel like I’ve heard that kind of accent a million times, yet I cannot recall ever doing so? _Where is he from?_ I wonder, _Where am I from?_

* * *

 

The sun’s rays slip through the room’s two shoddy windows, filling it with bright, yellow-orange light -- the kind that sears behind eyelids and drags you from sleep. But that is not what wakes me. No, it’s the hand shaking my shoulder that jolts me from my slumber. I wake far quicker than I expect, startled and flailing. Whoever woke me grunts, catching me by the shoulder as I almost topple from the hammock.

“Whoa, there! Calm down Bambi, it’s just me.” Newt chuckles, dropping his hand once he sees that I’ve settled. I blink at him, rubbing grit from my eyes.

“What -- ?” I grumble, clearing my throat. I can’t explain the strange terror I’d felt being touched while asleep ( while I was _vulnerable_ ). There was no danger here — not from these boys, right?

“You wanted to shower, right? Well get to it, not many boys are awake yet. There’s towels in the cabinet.” Newt moves away, ready to start his own day. “The laundry room is right beside the bathroom, pick up some new clothes if you want -- and remember to clean up after yourself. Don’t leave the towel and dirty clothes in the bathroom.”

“Right,” I nod even though his back is to me. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

Minho is still sleeping in his hammock, breaths steady and snoring lightly. Alby and Nick are already gone. I decided to hurry, rushing out of the room quietly, wary of waking Minho. The first floor is quiet aside from noises coming from the kitchen.

Outside is bright, but not as much as I’d imagined. The walls block out a lot of the rising sun. Still, I squint and make my way to the bathroom. The laundry room is more of a hut, propped right beside the bathroom. Inside are a few baskets filled with clothes and some buckets, as well as what looks like a washboard. Newt told me I could take whatever, so I look at the stack of folded clothing off the the side. It must all be clean. Smells clean, at least. I don’t know what size I am, and the clothes aren’t tagged anyway, so I hold a few shirts up to my chest and make a guess. My pants should be fine for now, so I don’t grab a new pair, but the ‘new’ shirt is a faded blue with a few grass stains around the wrists and elbows. It’s clean of sweat and dirt and that’s all that matters.

The bathroom is empty when I enter. _Small mercies._ The towels are on the shelf below all the toothbrush containers, worn but in relatively good condition. I take my own box as well, remembering the bar of soap I’d seen inside it. The only reason I’m able to tell that it’s _mine_ is because every other box has a name on it. Mine is blank, surface waiting to be carved into.

I throw the towel and new shirt over one of the shower stall walls and quickly relieve myself. I use the bar of soap to wash my hands and then bring it with me as I step into the open stall, not bothering to dry my hands. To my relief, there’s a little nook to place the soap. I store it there as I strip quickly, shoving the dirty shirt just outside the stall. The pants and underwear I hang up next to the towel and clean shirt. I can’t believe I forgot to get new underwear -- but as far as I knew I’d only been wearing them for a day, so it wouldn’t be too bad. Plus, the idea of wearing shared underwear, cleaned or not, made me shiver. Maybe I could ask Newt if they’d gotten any new pairs in the supplies that came up with me?

There was so much about this life and the way they lived that I’d yet to discover. Small things I felt were taken for granted. Why had I come to expect certain things? Why was it so hard for me to let go of certain habits I didn’t even know I had? I couldn’t afford to whine and complain about having to share clothes. It wasn’t fair. This was my life now and I needed to accept that, no matter what.

Maybe this life would be better than my last.

After all, these scars had to come from somewhere, right? Water ran down my skin, sticking my hair to my head. I peered at my hands through droplets and wet lashes. Those scars looked _stark_ in contrast to my sleep-flushed skin. And they weren’t the only ones. I had more, lines of white on my abdomen, some on my upper arms. Marks that had been hidden underneath my clothes. I didn’t know what caused them, I didn’t know this body at all. There was a yellowing bruise on my right leg and another right below my ribs on the left side. They weren’t even painful anymore, unless I pressed down on them.

How did I get these? Had someone hurt me?

_Well, obviously._

I finished my shower quickly after that, dressing as soon as I was dry. My skin didn’t feel like my own. There was something heavy in my chest, like a great depression that clogged my throat. It made me feel inexplicably sad, overwhelmed by my own feelings….they were mine, weren’t they?

Of course they were. Who else could they belong to?

But I didn’t want to break down here, not in the bathroom where anyone could walk in and see. Actually, I didn’t want to break down at all. My eyes stung despite my desire, signaling incoming waterworks. God, I felt like a mess.

Robotically, I put my things away and dropped off the used towel and dirty shirt in the laundry room. Some boys were up, making their way to the bathroom. Walking in my direction. The last thing I wanted to do was speak right now, not when my throat was tight and bound to crack under emotion. Luckily, the boys were half-asleep and merely grumbled a greeting as they passed, not even bothering to wait around and see if I returned the sentiment. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief, walking speedily across the Glade. It kinda felt like I was doing something wrong, wandering away so close to breakfast time. There was a routine here and work to be done, yet here I was walking into the woods and probably disrupting the schedule.

 _I have time_. It’s still early.

The Deadheads loom before me. I don’t slip too deeply into the woods, remaining instead on the outskirts, the first clustering of trees. There’s a nice sized one that I can sit behind to shield myself from the view of the Glade. The sound of insects seems almost quieter here, though _in_ the quiet I realize I don’t hear a single bird despite this being a forest. Spooky.

Shit, what am I even doing here? Hiding behind a tree and trying not to cry? I sniff, lips trembling. I feel like I’m gonna sneeze and my eyes water. But it’s not a sneeze, it’s just tears. Just a rock settling in my throat and drawing a sharp whine from my throat. _NO_! I breathe in and out, slow and deep. If I’m gonna cry I don’t want to make noise and draw attention to myself.

There is a deep, yearning desire to go home within me. But I don’t know where home is or what it used to be. I feel half-empty here, too much of myself missing -- a shell of a person. Something’s missing, something’s missing!

“Something’s missing,” I mutter, wiping my running nose.

 _Edison_.

I whirl around, eyes bloodshot and puffy from crying. “Who’s there!?”

No one answers. No one’s there, no matter which way I turn. _Edison, huh?_ For some reason it resonates within me. It’s my name, I know it with utmost certainty. What else could it be? And yet -- it doesn’t feel completely right. Edison is most definitely my name but it’s not exactly what I’m looking for. It’s not complete. I don’t like it.

“Bambi?” Someone calls, voice distant. I scrub at my eyes, knowing it’s useless and it’ll be pretty obvious I’d cried. Ugh, I hated being seen like this -- I guess? There it was again….I didn’t like being _vulnerable_ around people. Had I been like this before? Must have been.

I stand, wiping at my pants and sniffing one last time. With a hand on the tree I turn to step out from behind it. The sun is a little higher now, peaking over the Maze walls. I squint against the glare, spotting a boy. I think it’s Minho. What did he want?

“Bambi!” he calls again, hands cupped around his mouth. I hurry over to him, his hands dropping and a smile spreading as he sees me approach. “There you are!”

He doesn’t call me out on the state of my face. Maybe he’s used to seeing people cry around here, or maybe he’s just being respectful. Either way, I’m grateful.

“What’s up?” I croak, wincing when I hear my voice.

“Nothin’, just wonderin’ where you got off to. Breakfast is just about done.” he pats my shoulders and tugs me into the Homestead. “You’re with Winston today, alright?”

“...yeah,” I grimace and Minho laughs at my expression.

“Should’a known someone called ‘Bambi’ wouldn’t like cuttin’ up animals.”

“Oh,” I hum, ignoring the part about animals for now. “Speaking of names, I think I remembered mine.”

“Did’ya?” Minho glances at me, walking to a table where Newt and Alby sit. I follow blindly. “Good that. What is it then? Can’t say you won’t still be stuck with Bambi though.”

“What’s what?” Newt interrupts, now within hearing range as Minho and I seat ourselves at the table. He as well only gives my red features a cursory glance.

“Bambi here thinks he’s remembered his name.” Minho announces. Perhaps it’s rude that he’s speaking for me, but I don’t really mind.

“I don’t really….like it.” My voice is significantly quieter than Minho’s boisterous one. They all hear me anyway.

“Is it somethin’ dumb?” Minho questions, before yelping in surprised pain and glaring at Newt. The blonde shoots him a look, probably having kicked Minho under the table.

“I don’t think so.” I shake my head. There’s nothing really wrong about the name Edison, it just doesn’t feel _whole_. “It’s more like … somethin’s missing.”

I’ve been saying that a lot lately, haven’t I?

“Well, what is it? Don’t leave us hangin’!” Minho exclaims, drumming his hands on the table excitedly.

“Edison.” My brows furrow as I utter it. It sits wrong on my tongue. I don’t know why, seeing as it _must_ be my name. “But for some reason it doesn’t feel completely _right_.”

“Eddie, then,” Newt says, chin in his hand.

 _Oh_. Oh. That feels better. I smile, slow and warm and wide enough that my eyes crinkle. I like the way it sounds coming out of Newt’s mouth. It’s comforting. Despite being high and wavering due to puberty, I feel like I could listen to the boy speak for hours. I’m a little jealous of the way he sounds, actually.

“ _Eddie_.” I murmur, glancing at the blonde joyfully, “That sounds about right. Thanks, Newt.”

“Y-Yeah,” Newt stutters, chocolate eyes a little wider than usual. He bobs his head, hands dropping to the table. “Yeah.”

“Huh,” Minho hums, that single _huh_ filled to the brim with unspoken words. His dark eyes dart from Newt’s face to my own. “Alright then, _Eddie_. Welcome to the Glade, I guess -- but I’m still gonna call you Bambi. It’s stuck in my head now.”

“Didn’t expect you to stop.” I acquiesce, “I kinda like it anyway, I’m certainly cute enough for it to stick.”

“Yeah _right_ , you ugly shank!” Minho laughs, shoving my shoulder gently. “Don’t let it get to your head!”

“Hey!” I cry in mock anger, actually enjoying this easy bantering. “If I’m ugly then where does that leave _you_?”

Newt snorts.

Minho puffs out his chest, “Obviously, it leaves me as the _handsomest_ , most _dashing_ guy here!”

“No way,” I shake my head, fingers thrumming against the table. “If anyone’s _dashing_ that would be Newt.”

“W-What?” the boy in question stutters again, “Me?”

“Yeah, you’re like -- super nice and you’re voice is really cool and stuff. I dunno, you kinda feel like one of those fairy tale princes.” My voice tapers off the more I speak, a flush settling over my cheeks. I feel like what I just said was really embarrassing. Newt must think so too, because his whole face looks cherry red and he’s avoiding my eyes.

“Aw,” Minho coos, teasing, “That’s -- that’s _adorable_. Oh man, the Lizard Prince and Bambi, story of the ages. A true classic. The novel was better than the movie.”

“Shut _up_ , Minho!” Newt rolls his eyes, a hand brushing through his already messy hair.

“He’s just jealous,” I say, tone conspiratal, “After all, he looks like the troll under the toll bridge.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” Newt agrees, eyeing Minho the way one might a painting in a museum, with a detached eye and snobbish air. “Quite tragic, actually.”

“Hey! You better watch it, slinthead!” Minho snakes a hand out to mess up Newt’s hair, to which the boy laughs and squirms away. “I know where you sleep!”

* * *

 

Working with Winston right after breakfast doesn’t go well. It must be planned, being made to shadow the Slicers on the first day after _eating_. Weeds out the weak, or in this case, the squeamish. Terrifyingly enough, the knife is a comfortable weight in my hand. It’s easy to use and if I didn’t know any better I’d say that all the scars on my hands are from being sliced. Winston has a few of his own scars already, alluding to his inexperience, something that’s pretty rampant here. We weren’t taught to survive, it’s a learning process.

There’s a dog here. His name is Bark and he scared the shit outta me when I first entered the slaughterhouse — excuse me, ‘Blood House’. ( The name the boys gave it wasn’t an improvement. ) Winston had laughed when I’d shrieked, going down in a tangle of dark fur and flailing limbs. Bark calmed down soon after, to my relief. I didn’t have a problem with dogs, just with being startled.

Anyway, being a Slicer wasn’t for me no matter how well I handled a blade. I couldn’t bring myself to kill any animal. I spent most of the time looking after them instead, a few pigs and two cows. The cows and about five pigs had been here when they had first arrived, and they got a new pig with every greenie. Milking said cows was an experience. Not a good one. Not even close. I liked animals well enough, but definitely wasn’t cut out to take care of them like this.

Winston agrees. He shakes his head with a wry grin, patting my shoulder. We’re about the same height, but his skin is a shade of caramel and his hair and eyes much darker than my own. “No dice, Bambi,” he says before pushing me off to eat lunch.

“Fresh air!” I gasp, maybe a little dramatically, once I’m free of the stench of copper and _animal_. I showered this morning but I already feel like having another one, just to wash off the lingering scent of manure. _Ergh_ …

“What’s the verdict, Eddie?” Nick calls when he spots me on my way to the Homestead.

“I’ve been kicked out,” I tell him, not even hiding my relief. “At least for lunch.”

“Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t be a Slicer.” He nods, joining me on my way in. There’s already food out on the serving table and boys eating. Lunch sounds amazing right now, or it _would_ , if I didn’t just come from the Blood House. Looking at the meat makes me feel a bit sick.

I only grab fruits and vegetables before joining the familiar faces of Ben and Doug at a table. Maybe in a few days I’ll be able to stomach the idea of meat again. Both boys grin at me when I sit, accepting me easily. I’m greeted with “Eddie!” and “Bambi!” and honestly, everything is great, all things considered. I’m alive. There’s shelter and food and friendly faces — yet I feel _off_. Like an incomplete puzzle. Something is missing. It’s important, I can feel it. The _most_ important part of me. But I can’t remember what it is.

 


	6. The Passage of Time

I get new underwear. I learn a lot about the whole laundry deal, actually, like how every seventh day there’s a mass laundry day where everyone works together to clean the clothes that built up over the week. ( We’re on day four right now. ) I carve my name into both the Maze wall and my little bathroom box.

 

The meeting to decide where I’ll end up isn’t for another six days, but Winston already assured me he wouldn’t be putting a vote in for me to be a Slicer. That’s a relief to me, and completely expected by everyone else. This morning, I’m to work with the Track-hoes. Gardening sounds nice -- but I don’t want to do it while still smelling faintly of blood. Like yesterday, Newt shook me awake before everyone else was up so I could shower.

 

“Up ya get, Bambi,” he murmurs, voice soft. Minho and Alby are still asleep and Nick looks to just be rousing. I grunt in acknowledgement, shuffling off the hammock and out of the room.

 

The bathroom is empty again. Before entering I’d grabbed a new shirt, underwear and socks, deciding to keep the pants again. The air was muggy and warm despite it still being relatively dark out, small hints of light just beginning to peek over the massive walls. The water from the shower was a welcome, if chilly, relief. There was no hot water, not that we really wanted or needed it here.

 

I soaped my hands up, sliding them down my body and scrubbing. Small imperfections -- scars, raised and uneven skin underneath the drag of my fingertips. Each one had a story, a reason for being there, etched into my flesh. I wonder if I’ll ever know where they came from. The bruise on my thigh and side are still visible, yellow and fading, but still _there_. ( It’s only been a day since I noticed them though, so I didn’t expect either of them to be healed just yet. )

 

“Blimey!”

 

I start, slipping a little on the wet stall floor. At the last second I remember I’m buck naked, and that’s what stops me from whirling around. Instead I jerk slightly to the side, twisting my torso and head to peer at who’s behind me. I already know who it is though -- there’s only one person who sounds like that in the Glade.

 

Newt’s eyes are wide, to the point where I can see white all around his chocolate irises. He’s focused on my back, but flicks his gaze up when he notices I’ve moved. Our eyes lock.

 

“W-What?” I ask, still unwilling to turn around. We’re both boys, but I’d like to retain _some_ decency.

 

“Your back,” Newt’s mouth twists into a frown, a dark look passing over his face, “You’ve got scars...and bruises.”

 

“Oh,” I reply, without much thought or emotion. Newt raises a brow, seemingly more concerned than I am about this information. It isn’t that I don’t care, it’s just that I’ve already seen scars and bruises on my body, so having more isn’t very surprising. “They’re everywhere, huh.”

 

“Everywhere?” Newt’s frown deepens. Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say.

 

I sigh, turning a little more and dropping my hands to my waist. “I’ve got more than a few scars on my hands ‘n arms,” I trace a white line on my abdomen with a finger, Newt’s eyes following the movement. “And some in other places.”

 

There isn’t much to say about them. I don’t know where they came from or how I got them, so I won’t be able to answer any questions Newt may have because I have the same ones. Speaking of Newt, he’s being very quiet. He’s still staring, eyes a little unfocused like he’s deep in thought.

 

“...um, can we maybe continue this when I have clothes on?” I ask, because while Newt doesn’t seem to really be looking _at_ me so much as _through_ me, he’s still facing me while I’m naked. In the shower. I scratch my cheek nervously, a flush spreading across my cheeks. The longer this situation goes on the more self-conscious and self-aware I feel. Aren’t I too young to care about this? Actually... _puberty._ Teenagers are a lot more aware of their bodies and how others perceive them.

 

I’m not sure why I know that. As usual.

 

Newt blinks, refocusing. His eyes trail up my torso briefly before he meets my eyes again. “Uh,” he says, red spreading fast across his face all the way to his ears. “Sorry, uh, I’ll let you finish. We can talk during breakfast.”

 

 _Talk._ Sounds daunting. I’m not sure what he wants out of me, seeing as I’m just as in the dark as he is. But I nod anyway and make a sound of agreement before turning back around fully and resuming my shower. When I turn off the water a few minutes later, Newt isn’t anywhere to be seen but a few boys are starting to trickle in, so I dry and dress quickly. I don’t need anymore comments about the state of my body.

 

When I enter the Homestead, more than half the boys are already seated. Minho is up, and he waves to me from the table he sits at with Newt. They’re together a lot, both of them being Runners. I don’t envy them in the slightest. ( But I do feel a bit…. _restless._ I want to do something. Move, run, jump -- just, _some_ kind of activity. ) I should take up jogging around the Glade in the mornings. Maybe. Who knows what my schedule will be like.

 

“Eddie, lemme see your hand.” Newt speaks up before Minho can, the dark haired boy shooting him a glare. I blink, pausing for a split second as I’m about sit before continuing on. We’re seated side by side, so I put my arm up on the table and slide it over a little. Newt doesn’t hesitate to push up the off-white shirt sleeves, revealing more of my pale skin, marred by scars here and there. Minho is silent, leaning over the table to peer at my arm. Newt picks up my hand and pokes at a few of the heavy white lines, tracing some of the long ones. His hand is warm and his fingers tickle my palm but I keep still, despite the weird feeling in my gut. Feeling a weight in my hand is nice, had I held hands often? In my life _before_?

 

“Whoa, dude, your hands look like Winston’s,” Minho shakes his head a little, looking partially awed and partially something I can’t name. “But like, twice as bad.”

 

“Those bruises,” Newt mutters, his brow furrowed again. That concerned expression is one I see too often on his face. There’s almost always a furrow between his eyebrows, making him look more serious than he should at the age he is. _Thirteen? Fourteen?_ Too young to have so much on his shoulders. “You were hurt before you were sent here.”

 

“Yeah.” I agree quietly, because what else can I do? The evidence is there and Newt witnessed it with his own eyes. I bring my unoccupied hand up to touch the almost completely healed bruise under my eye. “I think someone hit me. Quite a few times, it seems.”

 

“That’s never been the case before.” Minho looks serious, it’s not an expression that suits him. He looks better when he’s relaxed and teasing. “We’ve never had a boy that came lookin’ like you.”

 

“...you sure?” It’s not that I don’t believe them, but not everyone notices bruises that can be hidden under clothes.

 

“Not like that, Eddie,” Newt shares a glance with Minho. “Not like these marks you’ve got.”

 

We’re all silent for a moment, the air feels awkward and heavy.

 

“Well, whatever happened, it’s over now.” Minho nods, clapping his hands together and sitting back. “You’re with us now, Eddie, and whoever did that to you isn’t here.”

 

It’s meant to be comforting, and it is, to a degree. The circumstances of my condition are unknown, so it makes sense they’d assume the worse -- that I’d been beaten or abused in some way. But it happened. I’m like this for a reason and I want to know _why_. These marks on my flesh, they’re never gonna leave. Maybe they’ll fade a bit over time, years and years down the road, but I’m stuck with them. Imperfect skin and no explanation. It was unsettling.

 

“What’s goin’ on here?” Alby grunts, sitting down heavily next to Minho and breaking the weird fog of depressing thoughts. “You sweet on the Greenie, Newt?”

 

“What?” he squints, confused, before looking down and realizing that he’s still ‘holding’ my hand. The blonde jerks his hand away, “Aw, shut up man, it’s not like that.”

 

“Sure, I don’t care.” Alby plows right on, “Eddie, you’re with the Track-hoes today. Zart--” he points at a tall boy with white-blonde hair and blue eyes, “--is the Keeper, go to him after you eat and he’ll show you the ropes.”

 

“Right, okay.” I nod, just as Frypan and Jim step out and announce that breakfast is ready.

 

* * *

Zart’s a good guy. It’s only him and Adam working the small but decently growing gardens. Every day they water and weed the budding plants, till soil and expand the fields bit by bit. It’s a lot of work for just two boys, but it’s going smoothly so far. They certainly appreciate the help, and gardening is actually quite soothing. I wouldn’t mind working with them -- for the most part. The sun really gets to you after a while, already I can feel the tender skin on the back of my neck burn. All the boys here are tanned and sunburned from constant exposure. As it so happens, I’m the palest person here at the moment. That’s sure to change within a few weeks, especially if I end up being a Track-hoe.

 

“If you want to, I don’t see myself sayin’ no,” Zart admits, shrugging his shoulders. His hair looks almost white in the sun. “It’s too early to decide, Greenie. You might end up findin’ that you fit another job better, ‘s why we let you try out all of ‘em.”

 

“Well,” I smile softly, “This is my current number one pick.”

 

“You’re just sayin’ that because you had to shadow Winston yesterday.” Adam calls over from a few rows down, brushing strands of sweat-soaked ginger hair from his forehead. My own shirt is stuck to my back, beads of sweat slipping down my neck.

 

“Anything is better than being a Slicer!” I shoot back.

 

“Even being a _Bagger_?” Zart inquires, amusement on his sunburnt features. He deftly plucks a sprouting weed from the dirt.

 

I think about it for a moment. “I don’t think...being a Bagger would be as bad as a Slicer. I think I’d be able to be a decent guard if I wanted!”

 

“You?” Adam snorts, but he’s teasing rather than being rude, “You look like you wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

 

It’s not hard to see what he means. My non-aggressive nature is already obvious, and I’m not the tallest, but that can change. I’m still growing after all. _I hope I’m growing._ No one would ever take me seriously if I stayed at five foot nothin’ with a nickname like _Bambi._ But I do wonder about what Adam says, eyes on my hands. I pull up a weed absentmindedly, remembering the familiar ease I felt handling a blade the other day. Maybe I didn’t _like_ hurting people, but it seemed like I knew _how_ to.

 

* * *

Day Three.

 

I cooked with Frypan and Jim. Both were accommodating and patient and _good_ guys, if a little rushed. As I thought, providing food for a bunch of boys was more difficult than one would think. I wasn’t bad at it, not even close. A little clumsy at first, but I followed instructions well enough -- according to Fry. I considered it a success.

 

Day Four.

 

Gally was a rough ‘n tough kinda guy, but nice enough as long as you didn’t do anything stupid. Working with the Builders made it known that despite my size, I could handle a bit of weight. Ben had been quick to move towards me when I’d gone to move a chunk of wood, but had stopped short when I’d lifted it without much strain. Our expressions were mirror images of shock and surprise, before Ben’s face shifted to looking impressed. I guess that muscle tone I’d seen in the shower and felt beneath my fingers wasn’t just for show! Being a Builder wouldn’t be too bad. Doug and Ben were shaping up to be great friends, and Gally was actually a nice guy under that hard exterior. Stern, perhaps, but not mean spirited. I’d have a place with them if I really wanted it.

 

Day Five.

 

Being a Bagger wasn’t _awful,_ but it wasn’t great either. We checked the graves briefly, then stood around the doors to the Maze all day. Guarding. Just in case someone who _wasn’t_ a Runner tried to leave the Glade. There wasn’t anyone in the Slammer to watch, and not a single fight broke out for us to take care of. It was boring, mind numbing work. If you could _call_ it work, seeing as we literally didn’t do _anything_. I told Adam and Zart that being a Bagger would be better than being a Slicer, but I hadn’t realized just how bad it was. I couldn’t handle being so bored all day every day, I’d end up running into the Maze just to end it.

 

Billy was not one for starting conversation, and neither was I. Putting two introverts together was a mistake, because it just made everything painfully quiet and awkward. By the time the day was over, I bolted from Billy’s side as smoothly as possible. I’d never been happier to join the gaggle of boys in the Homestead.

 

“Rough day?” Doug asks, a knowing look on his face.

 

I give him a look and earn a laugh in return. “Being a Bagger is so _boring!_ There’s so little to do.”

 

“Man, I told you that bein’ a Bagger _sucked._ ” he shakes his head, digging into his food.

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

Day Six.

 

Clint and Jeff were part of the original twenty, and they worked together like long-time friends. The Medhut was a pretty shoddy construction, one that Gally and the Builders had talked about improving on more than one occasion. Yet it’s endearing, too. Earthy and shaded, with shoddy cabinets and pseudo beds.

 

Jeff, a slight, dark-skinned boy, shows me around with a kind voice and easy patience. I can easily see why he was chosen to be one of the ‘doctors’ of this place. Clint, who’s even shorter than me with dark, curly hair, is much the same, gentle and smiling. They show me the ropes, where all the bandages and medical supplies are kept. They’ve got rubbing alcohol, tweezers, bandages, needles and thread, medical tape and even a jar labeled ‘pain killers’. There isn’t much else, honestly, but luckily no one has come in with anything too serious just yet.

 

The feel of the cloth bandages in my hands is familiar. Another one of those phantom feelings, like muscle memory. When I think about it, I actually know what rubbing alcohol and antibiotics do. I know what saline is and I’m pretty sure I can sew, although the idea of stitching up skin is a bit nauseating. It’s not too awful though. I’m sure I could do it if it came down to it.

 

Turns out I find out a lot sooner.

 

“Hey,” It’s Winston, standing at the entrance to the Medhut with a sheepish and pained expression on his face. He’s clasping his right arm with his left hand, blood seeping between his fingers and staining his shirt.

 

“Oh man, again?” Clint tsks, resigned as he motions Winston over. Winston takes a seat on one of the beds like he’s done it a thousand times. Looking at the state of his hands, maybe he has.

 

“How deep?” Jeff asks, rummaging through the supplies for towels and bandages.

 

Winston shrugs, “I dunno, not awful I think. ” he releases his grip on the wound, showing a neat slice sluggishly bleeding, “Think it’ll need stitches?”

 

I peer at it. “Can’t tell with all the blood. We need to clean it first.”

 

Jeff glances at me, “Yeah. Hey Bambi, why don’t you try your hand at it, hm?”

 

My eyes trace the wound. “Yeah, sure.” I can manage that. I roll up my sleeves and get to work.

 

* * *

“You’re a natural, Eddie, seriously!” Clint praises, just as I finish tying off the last stitch on Winston’s arm. The poor kid has almost bitten his lip clean through trying to contain pained noises. There’s no numbing ointment here. That should definitely change -- maybe we could write it on a note and send it down the box? We might not get it, but I didn’t see why we couldn’t try.

 

It seems I had more medical knowledge in my head than I realized. Clint had handed me the rubbing alcohol to clean the wound, but immediately I’d handed it right back. He was just as surprised as I was when I told him that it was better to clean it with lukewarm water or saline, because rubbing alcohol was too acidic and could damage open tissue. Neither Jeff nor Clint knew what Saline was. I did though. Water and a little salt, not enough to sting but just enough to match your pH.

 

Chemistry. I’d been educated before coming up here. Had I gone to school? For some reason the idea of school seemed foreign to me. _Off_ , in a way. Too many gaps in basic information, probably a result of the whole _memory wipe_ thing.

 

Despite Clint and Jeff being here for longer than I, it turned out that _I_ was the one teaching them new tricks and skills. Like how to sterilize needles and how you needed to boil water and salt to make saline and then let it cool, or even how to properly tie off stitches. It was obvious they’d had no previous medical knowledge and were just learning as they went. I didn’t wanna be rude and say it outloud, but I was honestly surprised no one had gotten an infection yet.

 

“I don’t care _what_ the other Keepers say,” Clint watches me deftly bandage Winston’s arm with quiet awe, “You’re a med-jack if I ever saw one.”

 

I glance at him and Jeff, before looking around the room. I could see myself here. It felt right.

 

“I hope you know,” I begin, tying off the bandage and sealing over it with some medical tape. “That if I’m gonna be a med-jack we gotta do it _right,_ and that means sittin’ everyone down to talk about their health.”

 

“What’aya have in mind then, doc?” Jeff chuckles, but stops short upon seeing the serious expression on my face.

 

“How aware of the physical and hormonal changes brought on by puberty are you guys?” I ask, dipping my hands in a bucket of warm water to clean them. Winston nods his thanks and heads for the exit, looking awkward and eager to leave. Even if he escapes now -- he’s not safe from eventually hearing _the talk_.

 

“Uh, what?” Jeff blinks. Clint is no better, brow furrowed.

 

It’s a long day.

 

* * *

Day seven I don’t even _do._ Minho had shaken me awake and said it wasn’t necessary, because they’d already decided I’d be a Med-jack. I didn’t have any protests. There was no telling how they’d have tested me to see if I was Runner material, especially when I’d already decided I didn’t want to be one to begin with. Being a Med-jack was nice, easy even. I had a lot of random information in my head, and it felt good to be able to put some of it to use. It _was_ a little strange that I seemed to know _more_ than the other boys….not that I could discover why.

 

So far, Clint, Jeff and I had been re-organizing supplies and making a list of what we needed. Or rather, I’d been making a list of what I thought we could use and explaining my reasoning to the other two. Then, of course, we talked about what exactly needed to be built to get the Medhut in tip-top shape. Flooring, for one. All the dirt around here wasn’t good for a place that was supposed to be as sterile as possible. The walls needed to be better made and more airtight, in case anyone got sick. There was so much to do, and though we didn’t have a time limit, it was still stressful to think about.

 

“How’s it goin’, doc?”

 

Ben smacks my back in a friendly manner, smiling wide. It’s been a few days since the verdict, and despite me not being a Builder, Ben and Doug still went out of their way to say hello whenever we spotted each other. It hadn’t escaped my notice that a lot of the boys formed little groups during eating and even sleeping hours based on their jobs.

 

“Good.” I shrug, picking at the food on my plate. Breakfast was extra crispy bacon and eggs, again. “Busy.”

 

“Hm,” Ben hums, “I’ll bet, I hear you’ve been makin’ a lot of changes in the medhut.”

 

“Do you think I’m being bossy?” I put my fork down, worrying my bottom lip with my teeth. While I quite obviously knew more about medical care than the two other boys, I didn’t wanna make it seem like I was storming in and taking over. Clint was the Keeper and I had no desire to take his position. Being a Keeper meant being in charge of people -- and making decisions during Glade meetings. I had no interest in either of those responsibilities, it was stress I didn’t need to deal with while I was still assimilating to Glade life. Clint and Jeff had actually talked to me about it, but I’d quickly shut down the suggestion. I didn’t mind teaching them what I knew, but I really would rather just work in peace without worrying about being the ringleader.

 

“What? No!” Ben shakes his head, denying my worries. “I mean, if you were bein’ a smug know-it-all about it then maybe, but you’re cool. I think Clint, Jeff and the rest of us are just happy someone here has a skill as useful as yours.”

 

“I don’t know everything,” I mumble, feeling bashful. “I’m definitely not a real doctor -- ”

 

“You’re the closest we got, Bambi.” Ben nudges my shoulder. “Maybe you’re not a doctor wherever we came from, but in here? Nothin’ to stop you from being one, or Clint and Jeff for that matter.”

 

He had a point. In here, we made the rules.

 

* * *

“When does the Box come up next?” It’s been a little over three weeks since I arrived and I still get the days confused. It’s easy to lose track of time here, with no reliable clocks and only our personal marking of the passing days. So far, the box had come up consistently once a week, every seven days with supplies. When a month passed, a new greenie would arrive as well, just like I had.

 

“Three days, why?” Jeff answered, not even glancing my way. We were both busy working on the notebooks we’d gotten in the last box, one for each boy in the Glade. It had been my idea to ask for them, so we’d have a way to keep track of each boy’s medical history and the like. Once we set everything up, we’d be able to start looking over each boy for their first check-up. The best way to prevent problems was to make sure everyone was growing and progressing smoothly, and having monthly check-ins would hopefully help us spot any issues before they became serious.

 

“Just thinkin’. I really hope they’ll give us the measuring tape we asked for.” I scribbled another name down. “And the anti-inflammatories. It’s a miracle no one’s suffered an allergic reaction to anything yet.”

 

Granted, our food wasn’t in great variety just yet. We’d gotten new seeds, but growing food took time. The strawberries we had growing worried me, no one had eaten them yet because they weren’t ripe -- but I knew it was possible to be allergic to them. Well, more commonly than perhaps the vegetables, anyway. It wouldn’t be surprising if no one was allergic to strawberries or any fruits, but it was good to be prepared anyway. Nut allergies were what worried me the most, though luckily we hadn’t actually been exposed to any. As far as I knew, anything nut related wasn’t grown here and no one had asked The Box for any. Probably wise to keep it that way, as there really was no way to tell if someone had a severe allergy. Not until it was too late.

 

“Man, no one even _thought_ about allergies ‘fore you came.” Jeff laughs, pushing a notebook aside. They weren’t the greatest made, pages already yellowed and bindings loose and cracked. But they’d get the job done.

 

“As I said, _miracle_.”

 

Clint chuckles from his spot across the room. “Yeah, yeah, we hear you. Don’t forget -- we’re getting a new Greenie too. You’ll be promoted!”

 

“Promoted?” I repeat, incredulous, “I barely got called Greenie! Everyone took to that ‘Bambi’ nickname like fish to water.”

 

“Point,” Jeff sticks his index finger in my direction. “That is definitely true. You’re a special case!”

 

Clint cracks his knuckles and runs a hand through his curly hair. “Then again, ‘s not too much of a habit yet. Give it a few more Greenies and maybe it’ll really stick.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” I agree absentmindedly. In my personal notebook I mark a check next to ‘label journals’ as we’re just about done setting them all up. I trace a finger down the rest of the to-do list. “When should we start the physicals?”

 

“Uh, when the Greenie comes up, I’d say.” Jeff says, and Clint makes a noise of agreement.

 

“Yeah, it’d be best to wait since we have possible supplies comin’ up that we need.”

 

“Right, right. Good point.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Runners first. They do the most strenuous physical labor so we need to make sure they’re all in tip-top health.”

 

“You got it, boss!” Clint smirks.

 

“Oh, I’m -- ” I flush, pursing my lips. There I went, giving orders even though I’d said I wanted no part in being a leader. “I didn’t mean to overstep….”

 

“No, no, you’re fine.” Clint waves his hand in a ‘whatever’ motion, “You’re completely right. Don’t feel bad about being _smart_ , Eddie. I know you don’t wanna be Keeper, but you’re a great help teachin’ us stuff anyway.”

 

“...thanks, I guess.” Compliments make me squirm in discomfort. I don’t know why, but it’s almost reflex to want to bring up something bad about myself just to counter it.

 

“How about you handle all the Runners, that way we can observe the whole process first. Then Jeff and I will split the remaining boys between us.” Clint offers.

 

There are currently seven Runners, including Nick and Alby, who are the Leader and Second-in-Command, respectively. Since it’s best to have one of them in the Glade at all times, they switch off who stays and who goes into the Maze every other day. I know for a fact that they’re both only Runners because there aren’t enough boys in the Glade yet and we need as many people mapping the Maze as possible. The goal is to eventually have enough boys working as Runners so that the both of them can permanently stay in the Glade to oversee us, especially when the population starts growing.

 

If I looked after the Runners, that would leave six for Jeff and six for Clint, if you included the new Greenie coming up soon into the numbers. We’d have to check out ourselves as well -- maybe we should do that first.

 

“Sounds good to me,” I move to sort all the labeled notebooks. “It would be smart to divide the boys between us, actually.” From the pile we’d made I pulled out seven journals. Nick, Alby, Minho, Newt, Hank, Alfred and Wes. All the Runners.

 

“Each of you take six books. One of you is going to take on the new Greenie, too. If we split the boys between us it’ll be easier for us to remember individual details. You know -- like assigning primary care doctors.”

 

“That’s -- that’s really smart.” Jeff blinks, looking stunned.

 

“It’s nothin’, really. Just thinkin’ ahead.” I flush once again, avoiding his and Clint’s gazes.

 

“Slim it Eddie, that was a good idea. Own it.” Jeff pats my shoulder, expression considering. As he speaks, he pulls journals from the pile. “I’ll take Fry, Jim, Winston, Zart, Adam, Clint and new Greenie. Then next month Clint will get _that_ Greenie, then we’ll all have seven boys. Afterwards we’ll just go in order -- you, me, Clint. Stagger the new arrivals.”

 

“Look at you!” I praise, smiling widely. I note that he’s claimed boys by group, the Cooks, Track-hoes, Slicers and Clint, because we ourselves needed check-ups too. Jeff ducks his head bashfully and Clint laughs, his curls bouncing with the force of his movements.

 

“Shuck, man,” he chuckles, “I’m just goin’ off your ideas.”

 

“Nothing wrong with that,” I shrug, “It’s best when we can build off each other. It’s a team effort here.”

 

“You know, you keep saying you’d make a klunk leader,” Clint muses, collecting the remaining six journals from the stack, “but honestly I think you’d do a pretty good job.”

 

“Nah,” Shaking my head, I deny his words with vehemence. “I’m the quiet one.” Huh. My brows furrow. The words felt strange, _sounded_ strange. They imply that there is another, a contrasting person. A _loud_ one.

 

I don’t have anyone like that.

 

* * *

The Greenie arrives sometime after breakfast. When it’s just supplies, the Box lets out a short ring. The _Greenie Alarm,_ however, is blaringly loud and obnoxious. I’m almost certain the whole purpose of it is just to scare the ever loving _shit_ outta the new kid. ( And us, if I’m being honest ).

 

“ _Christ_ ,” My exclamation is lost to the loud, metallic sounding fog horn emitting from the Box. The boys, previously meandering around after breakfast, gather around the Box with various expressions of excitement and apathy. Greenie days apparently allow for slightly different schedules, if you’re not a Runner that is. Nick and Alby _both_ remain in the Glade though, as does Hank. It’s his rest day. I’m pretty lucky that Newt was on his rest day when I came up, he was undoubtedly vital in helping me adjust to the Glade. Too bad he was running today, the Greenie would probably be terrified and Newt was a more comforting presence than both Alby and Nick, despite them being the leaders. Alby had a bit of a temper, and hated explaining the situation to new boys. Four times was already too repetitive, and he dreaded having to do it over and over for the foreseeable future. Nick was better, but wasn’t very good at dealing with panicked behavior.

 

“I hope we got what we asked for.” Jeff strides forward beside me, Clint not far behind. The new Greenie aside, we’re all more excited to see what supplies we’d gotten. Turning the Medhut into a functioning space had made us both proud and eager to get to work. In a place like this, it was nice to feel useful, to be _busy_ . When you had time, you _thought._ And thinking could lead to dark places.

 

I stand a bit behind the two of them as we approach the Box. The alarm stops abruptly, leaving our ears ringing in the silence. It doesn’t last long. The new kid starts yelling, voice muffled by the doors. Alby and Nick pry them open.

 

The kid that comes up is twitchy and glaring at everyone. He’s probably a little taller than me, with dirty blonde hair and dark blue eyes. There’s still some baby fat on his cheeks, which isn’t unusual. The oldest of us is maybe fifteen, tops. No one knew for sure.

 

“Where am I!? Who are you?” he shouts, hands up in a defensive manner. “What the hell is going on, huh!?”

 

“Another screamer,” Jeff shakes his head, “Great.”

 

“Hey, don’t be too rough on him.” It’s barely a murmur, but both my friends hear it. “Can’t really blame him, can we?”

 

“Yeah, I know.” This time Jeff’s voice is more apologetic than exasperated, “I just wish we could get quiet ones like you. It’s much easier when they’re calm.”

 

“Forget him for now,” interrupts Clint, pushing the both of us forward, “We gotta check the supplies.”

 

I jump into the Box, rooting through the boxes until I see one marked ‘medical’. It’s moderately sized, which bodes well for us. Crouching, I lift it with a small grunt, carrying it to the edge and passing it to Jeff. Clint gives me a hand out of the Box.

 

“Phew,” the crate of supplies is placed briefly on the ground, Jeff rubbing his hands. “You made carryin’ that look _easy,_ Eddie.”

 

“It’s not that heavy.” To back my claim, I pick up the crate again and stride towards the Medhut. Clint laughs behind me, giving Jeff’s shoulder a teasing shove as he passes.

 

“Wha -- Hey! We can’t all be jacked like you, Bambi!” Jeff calls out, jogging to catch up.

 

Upon entering the Medhut I set the box down on one of the beds, prying it open eagerly. Clint and Jeff flank me, just as eager as I am. With the lid off, we peer inside.

 

“Yes!” We all exclaim, taking items out one at a time. I scramble to find our item checkbook, flipping through the pages until I find empty space to catalogue the new supplies.

 

A jar of salt. An injector with replaceable needles and a small bottle labeled ‘epinephrine’. A tube of antibiotic cream. The long awaited awaited measuring tape. A variety of bandages, medical tape, thread and needles. A small, dark bottle filled with even darker liquid, labeled in block letters: IODINE. Something else came up as well -- a rack of small tubes filled with what looked like clear liquid.

 

I picked up one of the tubes, squinting at it as I rolled it between my fingers. There weren’t any labels, which was incredibly unhelpful. If it was important I didn’t want to waste it, but I had to at least crack open _one_ to see what it could be. While Jeff and Clint chatted and sorted the new stuff, I twisted the cap off of the tube in my hand. Tentatively, I gave it a sniff. Artificial, definitely. I couldn’t for the life of me describe the scent, neutral as it was. I tilted the tube and let some of the thick liquid spill out onto the ground. It dripped into the dirt without much fanfare. No sizzling or anything -- not that I expected to be sent up acid or anything, but you could never be too sure. Deeming it safe enough, I poked my pinky around the edge of the tube to scoop at some of the contents. It was cool and slimy, feeling like a cross between gel and water.

 

What could it be? There were enough tubes for each of the boys to have two -- including the new kid. What did we need a bunch of watery goo for?

 

Oh. I blink, staring at the tube in a new light. A bunch of boys entering or already in the midst of puberty -- this was lubricant, wasn’t it? I wrinkled my nose. While the thought was nice, because at least every aspect of our growth was being accounted for, it was still weird. The Glade was filled with Beetle Blades, mechanical bug-like creatures with WICKED stamped across their backs that scampered around, _watching_ us. While it was true they avoided the bathroom, they didn’t avoid the Homestead, which meant the the chance of _Them_ seeing one of the boys in the midst of...well, you know...was entirely possible. _Creepy._

 

Had any of the boys even….done that? There wasn’t much time spent alone in here. Were they even aware of their own bodies? Ugh, perhaps it was something I had to bring up during the physicals; after all, I needed to pass out these tubes. Might as well, just to be safe.

 

“What’s Epine--Epiphren…?” Jeff tilts the bottle and squints at the words.

 

“Epinephrine,” I correct, capping the tube in my hand and placing it back on the rack with the others. “It’s an injectable for allergic reactions, that’s why we’ve got the injector and those disposable needles as well.”

 

“Ah, ok.” he nods. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Then what’s all that?” Clint pauses from where he’s restocking the bandages and tapes, gesturing to the rack of tubes.

 

“It’s lubricant.” I respond, matter-of-fact. If I consider it from a medical perspective, it’s not embarrassing enough to warrant a blush. I hope.

 

“Uh, ok?” From his tone, I can tell Clint doesn’t understand what that means and if he doesn’t then Jeff is probably clueless as well.

 

“Ah. It’s, uh,” Nevermind, this is definitely embarrassing. I clear my throat before continuing. “It’s to aid m-masturbation and s-se-sex. Per-Performing the act dry can cause chaffing and mild to severe d-discomfort.”

 

“Um…” Clint hums, both him and Jeff looking vaguely uncomfortable. “What’s masturbation?”

 

Oh, it’s going to be a long afternoon.

* * *

“Ugh,” A grunt leaves my throat as I stretch, arms above my head. After explaining the intricacies of hormones and sex ( it was awful and embarrassing and despite that I still have to do it for other boys ) we decided to start with the check-ups now that we had all the supplies we wanted. I’d quickly gotten a hold of Nick, Alby and Hank, since they were the only Runners currently in the Glade. It was an interesting experience, to say the least. A lot of discomfort all around -- but I was a Med-jack, the _doctor_ here, so I needed to be professional. This was important stuff, even the sexual education. _Especially_ that, at this age.

 

Then as the sun dropped and the other Runners started trickling back in from the Maze, I pulled them in one by one as well. Nick, Alby, Hank, Alfred, Wes and Minho had all been accounted for, each of them now having a first entry in their individual medical journals.

 

The only person left was Newt.

 

“Have you seen him?” I ask my two friends, rubbing my eyes. The day had been exhausting, more so than usual.

 

“Uhh -- ” Clint peers out the door of the Medhut, “I think I see him now, that hair of his is like a beacon. Yeah, definitely him.”

 

“Good, I’m ready for this to be _over_ with.” While I don’t regret becoming a Med-jack, it’s definitely more than I expected.

 

“‘ello, Clint. Jeff.” A familiar british voice greets, before the blonde himself steps into the hut. His hair looks like fire in the glare of the orange sunset. It’s beautiful -- not that I’d ever say it outloud. Probably. That’d be a bit weird.

 

“Eddie,” he drawls, smiling despite the exhaustion he must be feeling. Sweat still drips from his forehead and his shirt is stuck to him.

 

“Newt, good to see you.” I eye him up and down, wrinkling my nose and smirking a little, “Looks like you could use a shower.”

 

“Oh, slim it, I’ve had a long day.” he grunts, dropping down on the bed when I gesture to it.

 

“‘M sure you have.” I soothe, stepping into his space. “Open your mouth.”

 

“Wh-what?” he blinks, bewildered.

 

I hold up the thermometer in my hand. “Gotta check your temperature. Open up!”

 

He complies, and I slip it under his tongue. It’s one of those mercury ones where the red rises up and down and you have to read the notches. For some reason it feels _old_ to me. Like it should be more advanced.

 

“98.4 degrees fahrenheit.” I read out, pulling the thermometer from his mouth and writing down the numbers in Newt’s journal.

 

“Hey, sorry to interrupt, but dinner’s about to start.” Jeff says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

 

“Tell Fry to save somethin’ for Newt and I, this shouldn’t take too long.” Putting the pen down, I clean the thermometer before putting it away. “You’ve seen the process six times now, so you can both go if you’d like. I’ll be here when you conduct your own physicals anyway, in case you have questions.”

 

“Alright, thanks Doc,” Clint salutes, slipping out of the Medhut. Jeff says his goodbyes as well and slips out, leaving Newt and I alone.

 

“Sorry,” Newt glances at me as I speak, confused.

 

“About what?” he asks.

 

“Keepin’ you from dinner. I know you must be tired and hungry after being in the Maze all day.” I don’t know how they do it, honestly. Go out in there while those _Grievers_ roam. It’s pretty lucky that they don’t show their grotesque faces during the day.

 

“Ah, ‘s alright. I know this is important.” he murmurs as I step closer. “You’ve been quite busy, haven’t you?”

 

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” With deft movements I take Newt’s right hand and flip it, holding it steady as I press two fingers to his pulse.

 

“What’re you doing?” startled but curious, Newt’s head tilts down as he glances at my hands on his wrist.

 

“Taking your pulse.” I explain patiently, as I’ve done quite a few times today. Luckily I only have to do it once, the next check-up everyone will know what to expect. “Can you count to sixty for me? I usually have Clint or Jeff do it, but…”

 

“Y-Yeah, sure,” Newt nods, “How do you want me to--?”

 

“Count slowly, like you’re counting seconds. I need to calculate beats per minute, but I can only keep track of your beats.”

 

“Right, right.” he clears his throat, and begins counting steadily. “One...two…”

 

The sound of his voice bleeds out as I hyperfocus on the fluttering under my fingers. My own counting begins. One, two, three, four, his pulse is strong. Unsurprising, as he’s been doing months of intense physical activity. Being a Runner is good cardio. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen -- I blink, mouth pursing. Newt’s pulse is picking up. I press a little firmer against his now racing pulse, trying to keep track of the beats. His fingers shift in my hold. I keep counting in my head, finally glancing up in confusion. Maybe he’s feeling sick?

 

Chocolate eyes bore into my own. Newt startles at being caught staring, his voice wobbling for a moment. He recovers smoothly and keeps up his consistent counting pace. Our heads are inches apart, I can see every shade of brown in his eyes and the smudge of dirt on his cheek. He looks flushed and I frown -- don’t think about it! Gotta keep track of the numbers.

 

“S-Sixty.” he finishes, still staring into my eyes. I break the staring contest to look down at our hands, feeling odd.

 

“Good that,” I nod, clearing my throat. Turning around, I pick up the journal again to scribble the data down. “I dunno how accurate it’s gonna be. It’s supposed to be resting heart rate, but yours picked up a bit part way through. Are you feeling alright?”

 

“Uh, yeah,” Newt’s voice cracks. I turn around, seeing the flush on his face burn deeper. I wonder if he’s embarrassed about his voice changing. It _was_ pretty funny to hear it drop and crack, but nothing abnormal.

 

“Are you sure? You look a little flushed...” Absentmindedly, I place my palm on his forehead, ignoring the feel of grime and sweat. “...hm, you don’t feel like you have a fever,”

 

“I’m fine, Eddie, I swear.” his voice cracks again on the first words, “Just a bit of a sunburn -- and I’m still a bit hot from running.”

 

It sounds like an excuse, but he doesn’t seem to be running a fever so I let it slide. “Right, well, stand up then. I need to measure your height.”

 

Newt stands and I pick up the measuring tape from the bedside counter. Crouching, I position the end of it just under his heel.

 

“Hold it down with your foot.” I order, rising to my full height and letting the tape pull taut as I hold it up. Newt’s taller than me, but this just confirms it. “5’7”, wow.”

 

He’s definitely not done growing either.

 

“Is that a lot?” he asks, eyeing the obvious difference in our heights with a smug expression.

 

“It’s not _huge,_ ” For his age it’s pretty decent though, “Adults can be up to like, 6 feet or more.”

 

Newt considers this, “When I’m an adult, I bet I’ll still be taller than you.”

 

“You never know!” I poke his chest, “I could shoot up and overtake you before you know it!”

 

“Nah,” Newt shakes his head, “That’d be weird. You were meant to be short.”

 

I bite my lip, trying to contain the amused smile. It’s hard to tell if he’s teasing or insulting me by the tone of his voice, but it’s Newt, so I know it’s not meant to be mean spirited. Height obviously has some weird effect on Newt and the other boys’ masculinity. Despite being a boy myself, I don’t think I’ll ever understand that whole thought process. There’s more important things to worry about.

 

“Alright, moving on -- ” with a roll of my eyes I push Newt gently back to the bed. He goes with the motion, sitting down again without a complaint. “Let’s finish up here, yeah? We can discuss my shortness some other time when we aren’t missing dinner.”

 

“You got it, Doc.”

 

Going through the motions I’d been repeating all day, I tell him to stick out his tongue so I can check his throat, test the reflexes on his knees, and shine a light into his eyes to check the pupil reactions. Don’t ask me where the knowledge about this routine came from, I couldn’t answer. It was all buried in my head, the details lost to me. As was the same for most everything -- it was weird. I felt disjointed, like my body didn’t reflect the correct age of my mind. When I looked at the other Gladers I thought _boys,_ because they were, but also because they were _young._ At times I felt they were younger than me, which didn’t make sense because I was one of the youngest kids here.

 

“Alright. Now here comes the hard part, but bear with me. Alright?” With a gentle sigh, I drop heavily onto the bed beside Newt, notebook in my hand as I fill out his first page. “I’m gonna ask you some questions and they might be weird or uncomfortable, so I’m jus’ warning you. You don’t need to answer if you _really_ don’t want to, but I wanna let you know that I’m here as your doctor and anything you tell me I won’t mention to anyone else.”

 

I look at him, trying to convey my seriousness through my expression as well as my words. He nods.

 

“Alright, now to ease into it...are there any concerns you might have about your body? Any pains or odd sensations?” My pen is poised over the paper, awaiting his response.

 

“Uh,” he hums, thinking, “Not really? Sometimes my legs and arms ache a bit. It’s not painful so much as _weird_.”

 

“It’s probably growing pains,” Not unexpected at this age. “Just you getting taller, you big lug.”

 

He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. It’s cute.

 

“Anything else?” I ask, before he can respond with some quip and get us sidetracked.

 

“No,” his expression is indecipherable, “Just the usual soreness from running.”

 

“Can’t do much about that...aside from getting as much rest as you can in the evenings and your off day. Too much exercise can cause more damage than you think.” My pen skates across the page shortly as I jot down ‘growing pains’ and ‘soreness’.

 

“Okay, time to get a bit personal.” My least favorite part, but still important. “You usin’ the bathroom alright?”

 

It’s silent.

 

“What?” Newt looks like a startled animal, eyes wide with disbelief. “H-How I -- what?”

 

I push through, “No blood in your excrement? It’s not black is it? You don’t have any pain when you _go_.”

 

“Um.” he squeaks, hunching in on himself. “It’s f-fine, everything’s fine. Blimey, nothin’ -- nothin’ weird’s been goin’ on!”

 

“I know it’s embarrassing!” I try to soothe him, “It’s great if everything’s okay, but just...just remember if something strange or painful _does_ happen I’m here to help, alright?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” he shakes his head rapidly, desperate to move on. Unfortunately we’re not done with _embarrassing_ topics just yet.

 

“Good that.” With my own returning nod, I pull two tubes of lube from my pocket and hand them to him. “Here.”

 

Chocolate eyes peer at the two clear tubes, uncomprehending. Newt looks from the items in his hand to me, a question on his face and the twist of his brow. “What’s this, then?”

 

“Lubricant.” I clear my throat. “You’re at an age now where your body is changing a lot, be it hair growth or height or muscle gain, you’re growing into an adult. You might feel angrier over small things, or feel self-conscious and stressed over concepts that didn’t bother you before.”

 

“Oh my god,” Newt breathes, face turning crimson.

 

“Everyone goes through it, in fact, all of us are going through it right now!” My words get a little faster, I’m just as eager as Newt is to get this talk over with. “A big change, one that might feel odd or strange, is your -- ”

 

I pause. Swallow. My eyes shift from Newt’s burning face to his lap. He lets out a sound, his hands flying to cover his groin. I dart my gaze away, clearing my throat. At least he knows what I mean.

 

“It’s totally normal. You might have experienced it already,” I make a vague hand motion, voice cracking, “Or not, either is fine. Everyone has their own sexual awakening at their own pace. Or not at all! Who knows!?”

 

“Eddie, oh my god,” Newt hisses, voice dipping sharply, he shifts his hips awkwardly. “Oh my _god_ , I can’t -- ”

 

“But the point is,” I already got this far, there’s no reason not to finish. “Touching yourself is fine. Just be clean and careful and use the lube for your own comfort. It’s also okay to...to touch others and have others touch you.”

 

He jerks in his seat, eyes so wide you’d think he’d been shot. “T-Touch others?”

 

“As long as everyone is consenting. I mean -- there’s only boys here, so I dunno how it’s gonna work. I know not everyone here is interested in other boys, some only like girls or just prefer them. But it doesn’t matter who you like, it’s all about what makes you comfortable.” Oh man, I’m shit at explaining and I can feel my hands shaking. It seemed so much easier with the other boys, but Newt seems to be more _personal._

 

“Do you…” he swallows, speaking up after a long silence that had edged on awkward. “Do you like...girls?”

 

The question catches me off guard. I’d never really considered it, too busy focusing on others to think about myself. I couldn’t remember ever seeing a girl, but I knew from a medical and biological standpoint they were different than boys. Pretty. Varied, like every boy was.

 

“I think so. I’ve never seen one, or rather, I can’t remember ever seeing one, so I’m not certain. But the idea of it isn’t bad.” Boy or girl, I don’t think it would matter to me.

 

“....and boys?”

 

I tilt my head, considering the boy before me. He’s fidgeting, hands still in his lap. There’s nothing left of the confident, kind Newt remaining. Only a nervous, awkward teenage boy. Is he struggling? Perhaps he’s wondering if he likes girls, boys, both or neither. That’s not always easy to find out about yourself, it can take time.

 

“I like both.” I say, hoping my own admittance will help him be more comfortable about considering his own sexuality. “To me, I think the gender matters less when compared to the qualities of the person. And you don’t need to know _right now,_ there’s no time limit to figure out yourself. It might be even more difficult because we’re only exposed to boys here in the Glade.”

 

Newt looks relieved, in a way. “So it’s not weird at all? To like boys?”

 

I’m flattered he’s basing the ‘norm’ on me, like it’s suddenly not weird because _I_ like boys. He trusts me.  “No, it’s completely normal.” I don’t ask him if he’s figured something out, it’s not my business unless he feels like sharing voluntarily.

 

“Now,” I get off the bed, snapping Newt’s journal shut and puttering around the Medhut putting various items away. “We’re all done here, if you don’t have any other questions. Don’t be scared to come to me with any questions, and everything is completely confidential. Hush-hush, just between the two of us, alright?”

 

“I got it. Thanks.” Newt stands, pocketing the lube. He runs a hand through his messy locks, grimacing at the feel of sweat still present. “Dinner, then?”

 

“Yeah, gimme a sec -- ” With a huff, I stand on my tip toes and shove Newt’s book back into the cabinet where the others were stored, closing it firmly to protect the delicate paper from hungry bugs. “Alright, all done!” I clap my hands together, now that I’ve finished with Newt, it feels like there’s a weight off my chest.

* * *

 

Two days after that, the new Greenie is ‘Sven’, and by the end of that week he’s a Slicer. It’s kind of a relief, knowing that Winston has help now. Caring for all the animals _had_ to have been getting overwhelming on his own. Both Clint and Jeff managed well with their own physicals, and it was great to see how much they were able to retain in such a short amount of time. Clint did my own check-up, Jeff’s as well. While the experience was new and actually kind of fun, we were all glad to have it over with. Explaining the same things over and over was pretty tiring, but now that it was done we wouldn’t have to do it in bulk like that again.

 

Life was settling.

 

The routine might be monotonous, but we were alive and we had each other, that had to count for something. Every week that passed we progressed. Our crafts got better, the food more accurately cooked, building projects expanded, vegetables grew. It _was_ a life, our life. Even if the Runners came back every day with darkness in their eyes and false words of hope on their lips, we kept going.

 

We could survive here, comfortably, for a long time. But we didn’t _want_ to. That’s why the Runners searched so desperately for a way out. Time passed and we kept at it, every day, over and over. Days were mirror images of each other, nothing new ever happening. Hope was all we had, despite the fact that it drained a little bit more for every week and month that passed.

 

And months _did_ pass. One after the other. The weather didn’t change in the Glade, so we didn’t have seasons. It was hard to tell what month we’d arrived or what month it was _now_ , so they didn’t have names, just numbers. Month five, month eight, month eleven. I’d been here a little more than six months now. Weeks of treating minor cuts and ails -- and giving an epinephrine injection to Rob, the boy who came up after Sven, because turns out he’s allergic to corn of all things. We’d found the reason that Zart experienced stomach pain and diarrhea, too. He was lactose intolerant. Took a few days to narrow down the problem, at first I thought it could have been gluten.

 

I dropped the pen in my hand, rubbing my thumb. I had a habit of gripping utensils too tightly and making my hand cramp. The mid-morning sun couldn’t reach me here, in the safety of the Medhut, but the heat was another problem entirely. By now, my skin was sufficiently tanned, even though most of my time was spent ‘indoors’. The sunburns on my cheeks and ears faded over time, and my skin eventually darkened into a crisp golden that contrasted with the deep brown of my hair. I could feel it now, hanging too low on the back of my neck and curling around my ears, it’d be best if I cut it soon. Some of the boys didn’t bother keeping their hair short, even with the heat, but I wasn’t a fan of the look -- or the heat, really. Any way to cool down even a little was good in my book.

 

“MED-JACKS!”

 

I jerked in my seat, glancing up sharply. I caught Jeff and Clint’s eyes, the panic beginning to rise. Someone had screamed that, ear-piercing and desperate. At once, the three of us bolted outside, pausing only momentarily to grab the little emergency bags we’d prepared for situations just like this -- where we could possibly need to stabilize someone before moving them into the Medhut.

 

The yell had come from near the doors. Hank was there, muscled arms straining under the weight of another body. His chestnut hair was almost black with the amount of sweat dripping down his face. In his arms was Alfred, motionless and clothes stained in dark, vivid red. Blood.

 

Hank dropped to his knees just as we arrived, succumbing to the strain of Alfred’s dead weight. Other boys had noticed the commotion and heard the yell, wandering over to see what was happening.

 

“What happened?” Clint snaps, not meaning to sound so aggressive but obviously on edge.

 

“Hey, back up!” Jeff yells, shoving at some boys wandering too close. “This isn’t a show, get back to work!”

 

The boys are uneasy though, seeing the shape the two Runners are in. Many of them seem reluctant to get back to work while something so critical is going on. Human nature, we were too curious for our own good.

 

“He jus’ w-wanted t’ see,” Hank heaves, arms shaking, “Wanted to see if he could get t’ the top ‘n see, ya know?”

 

I roll Alfred over gently, wincing when I see the pattern of bruises across his face and the odd looking position of his limbs. His head is bleeding, his right arm and right leg are _snapped_ , bones protruding from his flesh. There’s so much _blood,_ and he’s unresponsive. Completely out of it. Being moved must have been too painful, if he hadn’t been knocked out at the moment of injury.

 

“I t-told him, told him to get down,” Hank wheezes, face streaked with tears and white with panic, “He didn’t listen ‘n the vines -- they _snapped!_ ”

 

“Clint!” I call for my friend sharply, “He’s starting to hyperventilate.”

 

Clint moves to Hank, dragging him away from the scene a bit. “Deep breaths now, come on -- SOMEONE GET ME SOME WATER!”

 

“Alfred, hey,” I slip a knife from by pocket and make quick work of cutting his shirt off. His torso is a mottled mess of purpling skin and his ribcage looks deformed. “Can you hear me? Al?”

 

No response.

 

“Jeff! The stretcher!” I call out, “Splints! Someone keep an eye on Hank, Clint, we need hot water.”

 

Jeff flies back to the Medhut at lightning speed. Alby shoulders his way through the boys and takes Hank from Clint, giving us a nod.

 

“Back up, you shanks! Give them some room!” he snarls, and Gally reinforces it with a few shoves and harsh words.

 

“C’mon, Alfred, don’t do this….” It’s a whisper, barely a breath. I bite into my lip and watch the painfully short rise and fall of his battered chest, glancing my fingers over the skin. He’s broken a few ribs. If they’ve punctured his lung, there’s nothing we can do. I can’t perform surgery, I don’t even know where to begin and we don’t have the supplies to even _attempt_ it.

 

From behind me, I hear Jeff approach with the stretcher.

  
“Just a little longer, Alfred,” I whisper, “ _Hold on a little longer_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, HE'S A MED-JACK! Just to clarify, the reason Eddie has so much knowledge about medical practice, basic as it is, is in part because of his previous life. When he was a kid (the first time) he wanted to be a doctor so he studied it on his own for a bit. By the time he was in college though, he'd switched interests. So he kinda has a bunch of medical knowledge in his head now, just not the memories of how he learned it. In general, he has more life experience and knowledge than everyone else in the Glade, so it makes him seem a lot smarter and more mature than the others. He's not really a genius or anything, he's pretty normal for his mental age actually.
> 
> ....
> 
> Also....does someone have a crush? :)


	7. Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which Minho is kind of a gossip king and everyone knows something except for Eddie, who is oblivious

We move him onto the stretcher. He’s too badly injured for us to use the supplies in our emergency kits, the best chance he has is back in the Medhut. The entire journey he doesn’t make a sound. Jeff and I struggle to move him, more on Jeff’s end than mine. We call Gally over to help, he’s less nosy and strong enough to lift it with us. 

 

When we get to the Medhut, we transfer Alfred from the stretcher to the bed. He doesn’t make a sound, still completely unresponsive. That’s more worrying than anything. A million reasons for his worsening condition run through my mind; his head, his ribs puncturing his lungs, blood loss, shock. Any of those could result in his death. 

 

“Gally,” I murmur, moving to check Alfred’s pupils. “We might need some help.”

 

“Whatever you need,” He responds, face grim. “Just ask.”

 

“I need both Clint and Jeff here, but someone needs to run us a steady stream of warm water.” Alfred’s pupils are blown, almost encompassing his green irises. “ _ Shit _ .”

 

“I’ll handle it.” He promises, just as Clint bursts in with a pot of boiling water, hands clad in mitts. It’s obvious he’s taken it straight off the kitchen stove, probably from Frypan. Doesn’t matter, this situation is more important than whatever food they were cooking. 

 

“We’ll need more than that,” I make eye contact with Gally. “Work with Fry and the others. The water doesn’t need to be boiling, just warm.” We didn’t have to time to boil it and then wait for it to cool.

 

He nods, leaving the Medhut swiftly. The water in the pot is still bubbling, Clint pinches salt from our jar into it, creating makeshift saline. Jeff comes to my side with a knife and the small bottle of iodine. I take the knife from him and he places the iodine on the beside counter. I use the candle next to me to heat and sterilize the knife. So many things could go wrong here, even with the precautions we were taking, the risk for infection was immense. If he didn’t succumb from the injuries he had, an infection during recovery could kill him just as easily.

 

“Jeff, check his neck.” 

 

The boy moves to do so, feeling along the ridges of Alfred’s vertebrae. “I don’t — it feels fine to me?” He looks panicked, afraid to make the wrong call. 

 

“We need to secure it, just in case.” I pass off the sterilized knife to Clint and cut Alfred’s pants off with the same knife I’d used to remove his shirt. Clint holds the offered knife carefully by the hilt, eying the pot of water. We can’t wait any longer. The water might be a little too warm, but he’s out anyway.

 

I meant it, what I said to Ben all those months ago. I’m not a doctor, I’m just a kid who’s good at basic first aid. This is beyond me, the injuries Alfred sports are intense on a level I’m not sure he’d survive even if we had access to proper medical care. This boy, not even a man yet, with his bright green eyes and too-long russet hair, dopey grin and tongue-in-cheek humor, could die here. Right before our eyes. Alfred had been in the Glade before me, he’d always been a fixture in my life, a constant. I’d never gone a day without seeing him — we’d never lost a Glader during the length of my stay. 

 

“Eddie! I’m flushing the wounds!” Clint’s voice snaps me out of my head. He moves around to splash the saline solution into the compound fractures on Alfred’s right forearm and shin. I kick into motion, slipping on a pair of latex gloves ( a packet of them had come up two months ago ) and spreading iodine across the skin near the injuries. 

 

“Keep it coming, we need to clean it as much as possible.” I lift the knife over the fractures, needing to cut into Alfred’s skin to widen the area and stabilize the bones. The blade is familiar and steady in my hands, despite the nerves I feel. Jeff begins checking for any skull abnormalities or blood in Al’s ears or nose. He winces when he runs a hand over Al’s cheek, where the bruises are already vivid purple-black. 

 

“His cheek is crunching.” he breathes, looking ill. 

 

“Broken zygomatic bone,” I mutter, slicing into skin. Blood wells around the incision, but is quickly wiped up by Clint and then flushed away with more saline. “If he’s not bleeding from his ears or nose, patch up the cut on his skull. Stop the bleeding. Then focus on his ribs.”

 

Sweat beads at my temple. Gally runs in and out of the room with water, refilling buckets over and over. He’s diligent, I’ll have to thank him later. Bones crunch under my hands. I feel sick. 

 

“C’mon, c’mon,” I murmur, clearing a splinter of bone away and pressing the two parts of his radial bone back into one. “SPLINT!” 

 

Clint is at my side immediately, holding out two wooden planks padded with bandages. I tell him to press them against the sides Alfred’s arm, leaving the wound open but the bones held in place. He does. We need more hands. We’re not gonna be fast enough, he’s still bleeding out from other places. 

 

“We need volunteers, ones with steady hands.” It’s a whisper, but then I repeat it, louder. Clint hears and screams it out. Gally shoves a pot beside us and says, “How many?”

 

“Three? Maybe?” I dab at the blood still welling up from his arm. “Anyone who isn’t squeamish and thinks they can handle stitching skin together.”

 

Rob, Ben and Jim come in, Gally having firmly taken over water duties. It’s chaos for a little bit, everyone trying to get situated and fit around the bed. Rob is now holding the splint in place while Ben shakily stitches up Alfred’s arm. Jim is cleaning and stitching the slice on the Runner’s head, Jeff was keeping track of airflow and heartbeat, wrapping a splint around Al’s neck to keep his head in place. Clint had the other splint held tight against the fractured shin while I cleaned out the wound and pressed the bones back together.

 

_ Please work, please work. _

 

* * *

Alfred never wakes. 

 

Clint, Jeff and I stay up all night trying to help him, his wounds long bandaged but his condition still critical. Not once did he stir during the entire time, even with my fingers in his flesh poking his bones. I didn’t know what else to do to help him. It could be his lungs, his head, or just the culmination of all the injuries, but he was fading. We were at a standstill. His wounds were too severe for us to handle, we  _ knew  _ that, even if we refused to acknowledge it. I was pretty sure he was bleeding internally, and I could do nothing to fix it. Cutting him open wasn’t an option, he’d die instantly under my untrained hand.

 

So we made him comfortable. 

 

When the dawn light started slipping over the Maze walls, Alfred’s breathing stopped. He let out a single, deathly rattle, and simply _ceased_. I ran my hand over his wrist — no pulse. Attempting CPR was impossible due to his ribs, I’d only shatter them even further and end up puncturing his lungs. He was too broken for us to fix. _I just_ _didn’t know what to do._

 

I stare at his pale, waxy complexion, looking feebly for a sign of life on his expressionless face. He’s so still, body still warm. _Probably_ _only fourteen,_ I think, numb. Too young to be like this, to be _dead_.

 

“Eddie,” Clint’s voice breaks, tears caught in his short eyelashes. He places a hand on my shoulder and pulls me away from Alfred’s body. “Eddie, breathe.”

 

Like a switch has been hit, I realize my lungs are burning almost as badly as my eyes. I blink and breathe in, shaky and trembling. I taste salt on my lips. My next breath is a gasp and like a dam, I break, falling to my knees and letting out a mournful cry. 

 

I should have done better, should have tried harder! Just yesterday he was laughing at breakfast, alive and whole and eager to start the day. Now he was a corpse, pale and still and covered in bruises and abrasions. So young, still growing into his body, still flailing gangly arms and carrying baby fat in his cheeks. Frozen now, in this state, in this age. 

 

Hands curled under my arms, hauling me to my feet unsteadily. I didn’t look to see who it was, eyes glued to Alfred’s face until it vanished from view, Clint placing a sheet over the body respectfully. Both him and Jeff had seen death before, many times. How many boys had died before I’d shown up? Six? I should — I should be more mature about this! Shouldn’t I?

 

“I failed him,” I wail, finally  _ truly _ feeling the hands dragging me out of the Medhut. “Oh god, he’s dead!”

 

“Shh, shh, breathe Eddie, breathe.” Newt coos against my scalp, his grip on my arms shifting to wrap around me tightly. I still feel bone in my hand, the squish of tissue and flesh between my fingers. 

 

“Let me go!” I scream and struggle, shoving my palms against Newt’s chest as he cradles me. I don’t deserve this comfort, not when Alfred is lying  _ dead _ , his whole future cut short! “Please, please, please…!”

 

Newt suddenly seems so huge compared to me, easily gripping my wrists with one hand and wrapping his other arm around my shoulder. 

 

“Eddie — dammit, listen to me, will you?!” he breathes, voice low against my temple, “There was nothing you could do! Everyone here bloody knows it, we all saw how  _ bad _ it was and how hard you and Clint and Jeff worked to help him! You can’t shuckin’ blame yourself for this, you hear me?” His hand flattens down the length of my spine, sliding up and down in what’s meant to be a comforting manner. “We’re all gutted, love — but you didn’t push him off that wall.”

 

Feeling vulnerable like this, in full view if someone else...I’ve never done it before. At least, not in my current memories. I feel awful knowing that Newt and everyone else is suffering as well, especially since most of them had known Alfred longer than I. Yet here I am, crying and bemoaning my sadness while relying on another to comfort me — relying on  _ Newt  _ to comfort me.  _ Newt  _ who had been a Runner with Alfred, who had been here when Alfred arrived in the box and had known him longer than he’d known  _ me _ . I sag against his chest, his grip on my wrists loosening enough for me free my hands and slide them around his waist. My cheek presses against his collarbone,  _ just  _ able to pick up the thrum of his heartbeat. It’s comforting, feeling life beneath me.

 

“I’m sorry.” my voice trembles, nose stuffy and wetness on my cheeks staining his shirt. 

 

“I know you are,” he whispers, “but you have no reason to be.”

 

It’s not okay. It won’t be okay for a while. I’m sad, so terribly, achingly sad — but there’s something warm in my chest. Like liquid comfort, or a hand in my own. They’re feelings  _ within _ me, but I don’t know where they’re coming from. Comforting myself? How weird would that be? But that isn’t the case, I just  _ know _ it. The emotions are fractured, coming in like static.

 

I don’t have the energy to think about it.

 

* * *

That night I dream of blackness. It’s not scary, despite my fear of the dark. There’s a presence beside me, a weight in my hand. Silent comfort in an unseen space. Whoever it is speaks words I don’t understand and squeezes my hand, grounding me. I feel whole, content in a way I’ve yet to be my entire time in the Glade.

 

When I wake, it’s to sun against my face and a hollowness in my chest. I feel it, deep and visceral within every part of me, that something is missing. There is no space in the hammock for someone else, but I knew I felt empty laying there alone. Shifting, I got out of the hammock, swaying on my feet and holding a hand to my head. I feel ill.

 

“Awake, are you?” Newt asks, announcing his presence. We still slept near each other even after having moved the sleeping arrangements to the outdoor canopy space following Sven’s arrival, in preparation for boy number twenty-one -- Rob. That was over five months ago. The population was now at twenty-five -- no. It was twenty-four now, wasn’t it? 

 

“How -- ” I cough, clearing my throat. “How long was I asleep?”

 

“Slept through the whole day ‘n night.” he replies, getting out of his own hammock and approaching me slowly. “You needed it, you were up for almost two days.”

 

For a long moment, neither of us speak. I mull over the fact that I’ve missed a whole day -- that I’d been  _ allowed _ to miss a day of work. “...Alfred?” I ask, staring a hole into the ground before me. Newt’s feet come into view, stopping just inches away.

 

“Billy and Jackson are taking care of him.” his fingers twitch. “Eddie, are you…”

 

“I know…” I inhale deeply, releasing what feels like a weight off my chest. That weird dream had settled me more than I realized. “That it’s not my fault. Logically, anyway. I can’t help it if I don’t have the skills needed to -- to save someone like that. But it still hurts and I still feel bad, like it  _ was _ my fault, even though there was nothing we could do.”

 

“I get it, I do.” Boldly, Newt reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing my fingers. It brings a different feeling than the hand in my dream had given me, but it’s nice all the same. “You don’t think I wish I could’a done something? I’m a shuckin’ Runner too, I keep thinkin’ --  _ if only I’d run with him that day _ , ya know? Maybe I could have stopped him from climbing up. It’s survivor’s guilt, Eddie. You gotta live with the aftermath but you can’t let yourself drown in it. No thinking about ‘what ifs’, you’ll drive yourself bloody crazy!”

 

He speaks with all the clarity and maturity that’s only brought on by experience. Six times,  _ seven _ now, he’d likely felt this way. Wondering if a single action could have changed the course of time, turned a moment of dread into something else entirely. I shift the hand in his grip, intertwining our fingers. Sunlight slips through the raggedy curtain-walls, dappling our skin and setting Newt’s hair alight. I’ve probably slept for at least twenty hours, but I still feel exhausted deep in my bones. Sighing, I slide forward an inch or two and rest my head against his collarbone again, like I had the day before. His chest hitches as he exhales, startled. But he doesn’t tell me to move, instead I can feel his neck pulse as he swallows, the calloused hand  _ not  _ being held sliding around my waist and settling in the small of my back. With my own free hand, I grip the bottom of his shirt and settle fully against him. 

 

His heart beat is so loud, I can see the pulse jumping in his neck and feel his chest fluttering against my own. I’m hyper aware of it, focusing on these obvious life signs, on the flow of blood still safe within his skin and the nervous rise and fall of his chest. The slight tremble in his hand, the sweat collecting between our bodies from the humid air and the scent of grass from his shirt -- he’s so very  _ alive _ .

 

“Okay,” I sigh, words spilling into the hollow of his throat and tickling his skin. “I hear you.”

 

“G-Good that.” his voice breaks, fingers briefly sliding up the curve of my spine. “Let’s get you somethin’ to eat, alright?”

 

“Yeah,” I agree, though in truth I don’t feel all that hungry just yet. Maybe a bit thirsty. I step out of his space, his hand sliding off my back as I move away. “Thanks, Newt. You’re a good friend, you know that?”

 

An odd half-chuckle slips from his mouth, eyes flickering darkly. I’m not sure what to make of his expression, it switches to something more neutral too quickly.

 

“That’s me,” he says quietly, following me as I slowly make my way to the Homestead. “Newt. Best friend.”

 

“Now, I didn’t say  _ best _ friend,” I tease, cracking a small smile even though my heart feels tight and my mouth too dry. Newt tosses me a scandalized look before breaking into a real smile at my mockingly innocent expression. “Kidding. You’re amazing, really. The greatest best friend I could ask for.” 

 

“Cheers,” his smile turns strained. Must not be in a teasing mood. Neither am I, to be honest, I’d only attempted it to try and bring back some normalcy. Now I just felt awkward. It’s too soon. I can’t feel genuine humor right after Alf-- _ don’t _ .

 

Phantom comfort in my chest. I breathe a little easier.

 

* * *

Within the week, Alfred is buried in the Deadheads and his name on the Maze wall has a line scratched through it. I can’t stand the sight of the graves, so I spend a lot of my mourning time at the wall. The line through his name is stark white in comparison to the weathered look of the etching beneath it. He’d almost been here a year before…

 

Anyway, all the new names still stick out a bit more. Stephen, Dan, Jackson and Wyck. Sven and Rob’s names had started to look less new. Mine seemed ancient for six months, liked it’d been carved into the stone for eons. Month twelve was approaching -- my seventh month in the Glade. A whole year since this whole thing began. Crazy.

 

It’s weird, I wasn’t even as close to Alfred as I could have been, but his death still left a hole in me. In such a small community of boys, it was impossible not to know practically everything about everyone. Here, everyone was your friend. Everyone was family. We’d lost one of our own in a messy, bloody way and it left scars seeing that happen in front of you. 

 

“It’s not that it gets easier,” Clint had said to me, hand on my shoulder. “It’s just that you get used to the feeling and you’re able to adjust around it.”

 

Sounded kinda unhealthy to me, compartmentalizing your negative emotions. But it’s all we know. We carry around these sharp, painful bits of ourselves, wearing down the edges so they no longer sting as much as they once did. Even if those pieces of you aren’t sharp anymore, they’re still  _ pieces, _ broken off of a whole. You can’t break a mirror and then put it back together again, not perfectly.

 

“There you are,” Minho appeared beside me, glancing at the wall. He frowns for a second. “Hey, you know it’s not healthy to sit around here all day.”

 

“...I know.” For some reason I’m not ready to move on yet. I don’t know how everyone else has done it -- or maybe they’re just better at hiding their pain. “I’m working on it, I swear.”

 

Minho observes me for a moment, considering the truth to my words, “Just...don’t let it get to your head too much, sitting out here by yourself -- no need for dark thoughts.”

 

“I get it.” I stand up a little straighter, not annoyed so much as tired of everyone hovering over me, acting like I’m gonna break or off myself. “Minho, you don’t gotta try and convince me of--of whatever you’re trying to convince me of. I’m not gonna do anything drastic. I don’t wanna die. I’m just a little sad.”

 

“No, no, no,” he waves his hands placatingly, “I’m sorry, I get it. You must be sick of everyone sayin’ the same thing. Shuck, I -- I didn’t even come over here to talk about this!”

 

“...Oh?” Interest peaked, I turn my gaze from the wall to look at Minho. “What? You got a health question or somethin’?”

 

“Or something.” he shrugs, shifting on his feet. An awkward expression crosses his face, lips pursing as he considers his next words. “I don’t wanna -- I dunno, make any assumptions but...I think there’s something wrong with Newt.”

 

“Assumptions?” I narrow my eyes, instantly a little more worried now that I know it’s about Newt. “Assumptions about what?”

 

“He’s -- he’s different lately.” Minho shrugs again, scuffing the dirt and grass with his shoe. It’s odd seeing him so serious and considerate. Not that Minho isn’t a good friend, but he’s usually more headstrong and humorous. “I thought you might know why, since he trusts you ‘n all.”

 

“You know if he had a health problem and shared it with me, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.” I cross my arms, “Not if he wanted to keep it confidential.”

 

“No, no, I know. I just -- I’m worried and I wanna at least know if he’s  _ talking _ to someone.” Minho runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up. He’d cut it recently, it looked nice. Short hair suited Runners, helped keep them a little cooler during the day. Newt needed a cut soon, his hair was longer than mine, almost brushing his shoulders. 

 

“...I’m sorry,” with a heavy exhale, I shake my head, “Newt hasn’t come to me about anything at all. Medical  _ or _ emotional.”

 

Minho taps his fingers against his thigh, looking off to the side with a stony expression. That obviously hadn’t been the answer he’d been searching for, but there wasn’t anything either of us could do about it. “Would you talk to him?”

 

“Me?” I wasn’t the best at giving advice. It seemed that everyone else gave  _ me _ pointers and tips and helped me deal with my problems, not the other way around. Dealing with the emotions of others wasn’t one of my strong suits, I always felt awkward and disconnected. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about the problems my friends had! It’s just that I hadn’t the slightest idea on how to comment on it, especially if my response was liable to leave an impact on them. That was a lot of responsibility and failing in some way terrified me. 

 

“Yeah,  _ you _ , slinthead!” Minho scoffs, looking at me in disbelief. “I’m pretty sure Newt would listen to every word you say to him.”

 

“I don’t understand.” There had to be other people in the Glade that knew Newt better, Minho included. There were seventeen...sixteen boys that came before me, who had been here longer than I. Thirteen of them had been  _ with _ Newt that first day in the Glade. “You don’t think he’ll talk to you? Or Alby? Nick? One of the other Runners?”

 

“Oh my god,” Minho stared at me, mouth agape. “You -- I can’t believe this.”

 

“...what?” I shifted, uncomfortable under his judging gaze. Was this about the  _ best friend _ thing? Was I somehow Newt’s go-to now?

 

The other boy just shakes his head, looking a little amused and a lot exasperated. “Nope, I’m not touchin’ this at all. Not my place. But listen to me when I say -- your word means a lot to Newt. More than you might think.”

 

“I...okay?” I’d have to take his word for it. Minho probably knew Newt the best after all.

 

“Eddie, I’m serious.” The Runner puts his hands on his hips, “Just give it a try, alright?”

 

“Minho…” Frowning, I run a hand through my hair. It’s curling past my ears, near my jaw by now. It gives me an idea. “Does he know how to cut hair?”

 

I get a blank look in response. “What?”

 

“Newt, does he know how to cut hair?” I repeat, rolling the dark strands between my fingers. “I think I can talk to him without it seeming like a callout, ya know?”

 

“Oh.” Minho pauses, posture lightening. “Yeah, I mean, none of us are experts with hair or anything, but it’s never been too awful. Newt’s alright at it I guess.”

 

That was fine in my book. I wasn’t really worried about how my hair looked, we were all in the same situation here and hair grew back. “Ok, then I’ll just ask him to cut my hair -- and see if he wants his cut in return. Pretty as it is, the length can’t be too comfortable while he’s running all day.”

 

Something like a laugh slips from Minho’s smiling lips, his eyes incredulous. “Pretty?”

 

“Yeah.” Newt’s hair is a shade of golden-red-brown that I can’t describe. It’s absolutely stunning in the light, especially during the sunrise or sunset, when orange and pink reflect in his hair and make it look like a halo. It feels a little silly, knowing that I’ve waxed poetic about Newt’s hair color of all things. There was no way I was breathing a word of this to Minho, though. He’d never let me live it down -- or worse, tell Newt and creep him out. “Why? You don’t think it is?”

 

“Never really thought about it, to be honest.” Minho deadpans, rocking back and forth on his heels. I don’t like the look in his eye -- like a cat that caught the canary. “But yeah, play hairdresser with him, talk about your feelings, yada yada.”

 

“Shut up,” I roll my eyes goodnaturedly, biting the inside of my cheek in a vain attempt to stop a smile from blooming across my lips. “You’re the one who asked me to check in on him in the first place.”

 

“Yeah, well, if you got outta that head of yours you’d have seen for yourself that something was wrong and I wouldn’t have to confront you about it.” It’s not meant to sound accusing, because a lot of the boys are used to my quiet, internal nature. 

 

But it still stings a bit because he’s right. I’ve been more disconnected than usual this past week, because of what happened with Alfred. Newt had comforted me and seemed fine enough -- but had he really been? Was I even looking close enough? Was I even looking at all? I hadn’t been. I’d been focused on my own problems. It was a fault of mine, hyperfocusing and withdrawing in on myself. I already have a hard time making sense of other people’s emotions, but retreating within my head only made it more difficult because I couldn’t see past my own thoughts. I liked to think I was considerate but I was constantly anxious and  _ constantly _ thinking about  _ why  _ I was anxious. Not very good friend material when I spent more time judging and condemning myself than I did paying attention to those who needed me. 

 

“Shit, I’m sorry Eddie, I didn’t mean -- ” Minho shifts when I don’t respond, expression regretful. “I know you have trouble speaking up about any ol’ klunk.”

 

“No, Minho, you’re right.” Lips quirking into a smile that looks more like a grimace, I grasp my elbow with a hand, posture sinking. “I haven’t been a very attentive friend lately -- or at all, really. I’m not good at...at being open or speaking my mind and the idea of talking about feelings makes me wanna run in the other direction. But I do care about Newt and you and the other Gladers.”

 

“Shuck, man, I know you do,” Minho takes a step forward, hand out like he wants to comfort me in some way. “I didn’t mean to imply you don’t.”

 

“You didn’t, not really.” I shrug one shoulder, trying to dismiss whatever bad blood Minho thinks he’s created. “More of a reality check, if anything. I  _ have _ been living in my own head. I feel...safer in there. Can’t get hurt if you don’t open yourself up to people.”

 

“Eddie,” Minho finally drops a hand on my shoulder, looking directly into my eyes. His grip is strong. Grounding. “That’s no way to live. We’re already in a cage, man. Don’t put yourself in another one.”

 

God, if only it was that easy, to just let these weird insecurities and trust issues fade. I didn’t even know where they were coming from! They’d just...always been there. Ingrained in the deepest parts of me. But Minho was right. This mental shield I’d created, I was the one who built it and I was the one who could take it down. I needed to live in the real world now.

 

“I know -- I know, you’re right.”

 

* * *

“Cut my hair.” 

 

Newt glances up, fork halfway to his mouth. “Uh.” he responds.

 

“I mean,” Nervously, I wring my hands and peer at him from under my eyelashes. “Would you? I don’t think I can trust myself to do it.”

 

“But you...trust me?” he asks, still looking confused. “To cut your hair?”

 

I shrug, trying my best to appear nonchalant. While it’s true I have ulterior motives, I do need a haircut, which makes this a whole lot easier. I’m not very good at lying and manipulating, I get too anxious. “If you don’t want to….”

 

“N-No, I’ll do it!” Newt stands a little too quickly and smacks his knee against the underside of the table. “Ow,  _ bugger _ !” he hisses, fork slipping from his hand and clattering against his plate. 

 

I can’t help it -- I snicker, pressing my lips together tightly to stop a full laugh from escaping. Newt glances up at me, embarrassed and disgruntled. Coughing, I do my best to school my expression. 

 

“Sorry,” I bite my lip, grinning at his reddening face. “Are you okay?”

 

“Sod off,” he grumbles, picking up his plate. “Lemme just finish here and I’ll meet you outside.”

 

Nodding, I leave the Homestead and make my way to the Medhut to grab the shears. They’re kinda clunky and likely to take off an ear if you’re not careful, but it’s better than using a knife and just hacking chunks of hair off. It’d been three months since my last cut, obvious in the way the strands now hung annoyingly low in front of my eyes and tickled my neck. I found myself blowing or brushing strands away more than once throughout the day -- it’d be a relief to get this over with.

 

“Where did I -- ” I mutter, rifling through the drawers. I’m pretty sure this is the last place we had them. Something cool against my fingers -- “Ah-hah!”

 

“You ready then?”

 

“Ah!” I jolt, the shears slipping from my grasp. Newt stands in the doorway, arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

 

“You…!” I stammer, nose scrunching. “You did that on purpose!”

 

“Little bit.” he shrugs, looking completely unapologetic about startling me as he steps inside. “Now c’mon, we doing this or what?”

 

Grumbling, I shoot him the stink eye and pick the shears up. I resolutely do  _ not _ start thinking about the sun on his hair again. Instead I make my way over to one of the stools and sit myself down, holding out the shears. Even though the sun is setting, all the lanterns in the Medhut are lit, giving us enough light to work with. Newt takes the scissors from my hand and sighs, walking around me in a circle. 

 

“How do you want it, hm?” he asks, snapping the shears open and closed. 

 

“Uh, shorter?” I shrug, offering a sheepishly smile he can’t see. As long as it’s out of my face and no longer sticking to my skin uncomfortably, I’m fine with anything.  _ Well... _ mostly anything. I don’t wanna be bald.

 

“Helpful,” he mutters, a hand tentatively shifting through my unruly strands of hair. Feels nice.

 

“So.” I swallow as he begins snipping. “Uh, how….how have you been?”

 

Ugh. Awkward. Could I have been any more obvious? This is why I didn’t have talks like this -- secret conversations within conversations, meant to sneak information out of a person without them realizing. Being upfront was always much easier for me.

 

Newt cuts away the hair near the base of my skull, “...as well as I can be.”

 

Not very informative, but I didn’t wanna push in case he started getting suspicious. It wasn’t like I knew how to broach the subject anyway. What could I say?  _ Hey Newt, are you feeling depressed? _ Like  _ that _ would go well! That might not even be it, he could be having trouble with something else entirely. Newt continues to carefully measure out handfuls of hair and cut it as evenly as he can. The silence is actually quite comfortable, being in his presence has always been easy.

 

“What’s your favorite color?” I ask, after a significant pause. The snipping falters momentarily. He brushes a few clumps from my shoulders. 

 

“My favorite color?” he repeats, sounding bewildered. “Uh, I guess...it’s...I haven’t really thought about it.”

 

“Not at all?” That’s a bit sad, that he’s focused so hard on getting out of the maze he hasn’t taken the time to enjoy the small things. It’s too much stress for someone so young.

 

“Well,” he brushes a hand past my right ear, pulling at some of the curls around the appendage. “...I suppose if I had to chose one...maybe  _ gold _ .”

 

“Gold?” That  _ is _ a lovely color, I don’t fault him for favoring it. It’s one of my favorites too. “Like the sunset?”

 

“...yeah. The sunset.” his voice sounds odd, but I don’t move to catch his expression, wary of the blades close to my scalp. 

 

“I get that -- I really love the colors in the sky right as the sun rises or sets.” I sigh wistfully. “Orange and red and bright yellow…and I --” My breath catches as I pause, realizing I was about to admit my admiration of his hair color.

 

“What?” he prods. There’s actual interest in his voice, I hadn’t noticed it was missing until it was spoken so clearly. How had I missed it at all? The lack of life previously in his tone was more obvious to me now than anything. “C’mon, what is it?”

 

“Your hair,” Stuttering, stumbling, I bite out the words while pinching at my shirt. “When the sun hits your hair -- it’s my favorite color.”

 

I feel him freeze behind me, scissors stopped mid snip and one hand half tangled in my messy hair. Fear grips my spine -- have I made him uncomfortable? It could pass as a compliment, couldn’t it? The scissors continue cutting, the hand in my hair sliding down to my neck. The air feels strangely heavy. My face is, without a doubt, crimson all the way to my ears. 

 

“Y-Your favorite animal?” My voice breaks, embarrassingly enough. The silence had gone on for too long. I’m not even sure where I’m going with this, maybe just hoping to give him a reprieve from thinking about stressful topics. If I can make him more comfortable, maybe he’ll open up to me a bit more. Newt’s thumb brushes the space where my neck and shoulder meet, making me tense. Something weird’s going on. Was this maybe what Minho meant? Newt  _ did  _ seem a lot quieter than usual. He moves his hand from my neck to brush away a few more strands of hair before moving around me until we’re face to face. 

 

There’s that furrow between his brows again, lips pressed tight together and cheeks a ruddy red. He tugs my bangs between his fingers and raises the scissors. “There aren’t many animals in the Glade to choose from.”

 

“ _ Beyond _ the Glade, Newt.” Our eyes meet briefly. He looks contemplative, carefully clipping my unruly bangs into something more manageable. His tongue pokes out between his teeth for a split second. 

 

“Dunno.” 

 

“W-Well, mine’s a cat. I think. I’ve got image of ‘em in my head -- I think they’re cute. And they don’t have to stress about things, they’re allowed to just nap in the sun.” I stutter, fingers tapping against my thigh. Was it just my imagination or did Newt get a little closer?

 

“Hm.” he hums distractedly, his expression shifting into something I can’t read. I don’t think he’s even paying attention to our slightly one-sided conversation anymore. “Your eyes.”

 

“My...eyes?” Seemed a bit random to me -- what did that have to do with my question?

 

“They’re gold,” Another lock of hair is cut away. “Not always, but in the right light or whenever you get real bloody happy -- they turn gold.”

 

_ I suppose if I had to choose one...maybe gold? _

 

No. That couldn’t be the reason, that was ridiculous. I couldn’t even clarify the thought it was so outlandish.

 

“Oh,” I manage to say, unsure how exactly to respond to that. “That’s...nice?”

 

Newt holds my gaze for a long moment,  _ searching _ , but for what I don’t know. His lips quirk into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s suddenly a bit more space between us, I hadn’t realized just how close he’d gotten. “Unbelievable. You’re completely -- ”

 

“Wha -- ” I start, for some reason feeling incredibly uncomfortable. His tone is more bitter than I’ve ever heard come from his mouth. Newt shuffles away, dropping the scissors onto the counter.

 

“That should be good, right?” he says, that weird smile still plastered his face. “I’m knackered, it’s been a long day. We can cut my hair later, I think I need some time alone.”

 

“I--” Confused, I move to stand but he’s already halfway out the door. “Newt?”

 

But I’m alone now, with only the flickering lanterns and the sound of cicadas buzzing loudly in my ears. I feel like there was some test or challenge just then -- and I failed it.  _ Dammit! _ I bit my lip harshly, feeling more than a bit worried and regretful. This is why I’d thought it would have been better for Minho to approach Newt. I obviously didn’t know our friend as well as he thought I did.

 

* * *

“So?!” Minho corners me the next evening, a hand on my elbow as he tugs me off to the side behind the bathrooms. “How’d it go? Is he cool? He didn’t seem cool this morning. Please tell me good news.”

 

“Oh man, Minho,” I shake my head, feeling ill. My stomach had been cramping from the stress all day. “I messed up. I dunno what I did but he got outta there quick, he’s never run from me like that before.”

 

“What? Run from  _ you _ ?” Minho looks just as shocked as I feel. “What did you say?”

 

“I don’t even know! I was just askin’ questions, ya know — silly ones like his favorite color to make him open up slowly, but he...he just, I dunno.” I shrug helplessly. “He just made a comment about my eyes and how — how his favorite color is gold and I guess my eyes look gold?”

 

“Oh my god,” Minho breathes, “He  _ didn’t _ .”

 

“What?” Exasperated, I toss my hands up, feeling out of the loop or like the punchline of some joke I didn’t hear. “ _ What _ did he not do?”

 

But Minho just shakes his head, “No, never mind. You— you’re just...such a pure soul, you know that? Don’t ever change.”

 

“Ok, whatever, the point  _ is _ ,” I emphasize, bringing Minho’s attention back to the problem at hand, “He booked it outta there right after, and he didn’t sound very happy. I—” embarrassed, I shift a little, scuffing the dirt with a foot. “I dunno why but it kinda scared me a little.”

 

“...he scared you?” Minho’s expression goes hard, mouth set in a stern line. 

 

“Not exactly…” I mumble, “just, the whole situation...he wasn’t acting like himself at the end. It’s almost like I couldn’t  _ recognize _ him. Freaked me out a bit, I keep thinking I did something really wrong and now he hates me or something.”

 

“I don’t think he could ever hate you, even if you stabbed him.” The other boy snorts, looking a little more relaxed after I’ve explained myself.

 

“I--” Furrowing my brow, I frown and shake off the weight his words, “That’s reassuring I guess, but I seriously think he’s mad at me.”

 

“Nah, never.” Minho pats my arm reassuringly, “I think he’s probably mad at himself, actually. I bet he’s beatin’ himself up over the way he ran out on you last night!”

 

I wasn’t so sure. Newt had said he wanted some time alone -- and maybe that was him pulling away.  _ Pulling away… _ Not just from me, either. From Minho and apparently everyone else. His closest friends, the people he’d known for as long as his memory allowed. For someone like Newt, who had always been open and charismatic and unafraid to speak his mind -- it was worrying. Isolating himself wasn’t a healthy sign.

 

“No, there’s more to it…” I cross my arms, exhaling loudly and shaking my head. “Somethin’ is really bothering him, like  _ seriously _ affecting him. Not some silly tense moment. Has anything happened lately? Anything at all?”

 

There it is -- for one quick moment of clarity -- an expression of guilt and realization. Minho presses his lips together into a hard line, eyes dancing off to the side. He  _ knows _ something.

 

“No.” he lies, and he  _ knows _ that I know he’s lying. “It’s nothing. Uh, look, it’s getting late…”

 

_ You’re running away. _ I want to say. I want to call him out, but I don’t. Maybe I’m wrong -- maybe I’ve made a mistake reading the look on his face. Interpreting emotions has never been a skill of mine, he could be worried, not  _ guilty. _ Probably. Maybe. I still wanna ask about it, but Minho is backing away already, tossing a wave over his shoulder and heading back towards the Homestead.

 

“I’ll see you later, alright?” he calls, before I can stop him. “Don’t spend too long out here, it’s getting dark.”

 

“Yeah...okay.” I mutter at his retreating form. Something sinister has settled over the Runners recently. Not  _ scary _ per se, just dark and unsettling. Every morning they left with reluctant, unmotivated expressions and came back looking stony and exhausted. I didn’t know anything about the maze -- they said they were still mapping, still looking for an exit. But with every week that passed they just looked more tired and withdrawn. Even Minho looked stressed, seen with deep lines on his forehead more often than not and bags prominent under his eyes. I dread to think what made them look so disillusioned, what could possibly be in the Maze that made their hope falter. Either way, I’d never know seeing as I wasn’t a Runner. The Map Room was off limits to everyone else, as well as whatever information about it they’d documented. 

 

The sound of scuttling startles me. A Beetle Blade crawls up the side of the wall closest to me, mechanical limbs twitching creepily and an eerie red dot of light blinking from the general head area. It pauses just feet away, level with my face. They don’t usually stick around upon being noticed, so the behavior is a little odd. It’s like it’s  _ watching _ me. Creepy. 

 

I eye it carefully, inching away from the wall. They’ve always freaked me out, especially their size -- they were almost a foot long with thin, spindly legs; looking more like massive centipedes than  _ beetles _ . Ick. Just seeing one so close made me shiver, repulsed. It wasn’t moving either. Just watching me as I slowly moved away with it’s unnatural glowing red eye.

 

I felt a lot better once I turned the corner towards the front of the Homestead and the Beetle Blade left my view. They weren’t actively aggressive, but touching them wasn’t smart -- not that I could see why you’d  _ want _ to to begin with. The boys who had tried to catch or come into contact with them had received brutal needle stabs from their grotesque mechanical legs. Whatever their purpose -- because they were clearly  _ not _ organic and most definitely made by whoever put us here -- I had no desire to get up close and personal with the nasty things. 

 

Still...I couldn’t shake the feeling that the Beetle Blade had specifically wanted to observe  _ me _ .

* * *

The new kid that came up was a skinny slip of maybe fourteen, with brown hair and thick clusters of freckles. His name was Fynn and he ended up being a Track-hoe. It’d been over two weeks since Alfred had passed and I still spent a few minutes in the evening staring at his name on the Maze wall. It wasn’t as bad as it had been before, during those first few days, but I wasn’t close to getting ‘over’ it yet.

 

“Sven.” I pinch the bridge of my nose upon seeing the blonde’s sheepish smile. “Lemme guess, cut yourself again?”

 

“You know how it is, Eddie,” he laughs despite the blood smeared on his palm. As a Med-jack I’d come to expect seeing both of our Slicers in and out of the Medhut on a weekly basis. 

 

“I’d tell you not to make a habit of this, but I’ve already said it more times than I can count.” Smiling in exasperation, I begin the now familiar motions of cleaning and bandaging the cut. I could do this in my sleep by now. 

 

“And like I tell ya every time, it’s never on purpose!” he flexes his fingers, winching a little. “Can’t really help it…”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” He’s right, him and Winston aren’t exactly trained knife-wielders.  _ Not like I seem to be. _ “Alright, you should be all set! Just don’t poke at at it or strain that hand.”

 

“Sure thing, Doc. Thanks.” Sven salutes me with his unbandaged hand, turning towards the door. “Oh.”

 

I glance up at his pause, seeing Newt in the doorway. Sven offers a smile at the Runner as he slips by, and Newt returns it weakly. The older boy hasn’t really been around lately, distancing himself from everyone in the Glade. I’m surprised he’s here actually, we hadn’t had a full conversation in a week. Biting my lip, I glance from him to the ground, nervous. Clint and Jeff look up, feeling the awkward tension.

 

“Uh,” Clint looks between the two of us. Newt isn’t visibly injured, so unless he has some internal problem, then from the looks of it he’s here to talk to me. “Um, do you guys want us to...leave?”

 

“What?” Jeff raises his eyebrows, “Man, why do we have to--ugh!” he’s cut off as Clint elbows him in the gut.

 

“No, no...I just wanted…” Newt scuffs his foot against the ground, wringing his hands, “I wanted to see if...would you --  _ bloody hell _ . Eddie, would you cut my hair?”

 

Oh. I do recall him saying something about me cutting his hair last time we’d...talked. It surprises me that he’d actually remembered, or wanted it to happen at all. 

 

“Ah, s-sure.” I stutter, jerkily moving to stand. “Clint, where’s the--” 

 

He hands me the shears, looking as awkward as I feel. There’s also concern there, like he’s reluctant to let us go off alone. “Here ya are. We’ll just...take a break or something.” he says, gesturing to himself and Jeff. The other boy looks disgruntled, but follows the Keeper out of the Medhut without complaint. Newt and I are alone. 

 

“Well,” I lick my lips, tugging out a stool. “Sit down then.”

 

The blonde comes all the way inside and sits, hands folded in his lap. We’re close enough now that I can see the exhaustion lining his frame and the dark glint in his cocoa eyes. I wasn’t even sure why he was here if I was being honest. It wasn’t his off day, and dinner wasn’t for another hour or two. He’d come in from the Maze early. Despite being curious as to  _ why _ , I didn’t ask, not wanting to send him running once again. Prodding didn’t seem right when it looked like he was the one who wanted to do the talking.

 

“How do you want it?” I ask quietly, moving around him until I’m facing the back of his head. The locks of golden-bronze hair rest just above his shoulders, wavy enough that the ends curl in towards his jaw. 

 

“...shorter. I don’t really...care.” he replies, voice just as low as mine. 

 

I wait for him to say something else, but when he doesn’t I proceed with the cutting. The hair between my fingers isn’t as soft as it looks, probably damaged by lack of proper shampoo and constant sun exposure -- hair care wasn’t the greatest here. Anyway, while it wasn’t super soft despite it’s fluffy appearance, Newt’s hair was still pretty nice. It didn’t feel like  _ straw _ or anything, and it wasn’t wiry or greasy. Most of the boys were pretty decent about hygiene, especially now since they were all a year or more into puberty and their body odor had worsened. Newt, thankfully, was one who showered at least every day. Being here for so long made a lot of  _ not nice _ smells fade into the background, but it was still noticeable if you smelled like  _ klunk _ . 

 

Strands of sunset hair fall onto his shoulders and the ground as I carefully snip away. The silence feels heavy.

 

“...I’m sorry.” 

 

Pausing, I hover the scissors over a chunk of hair, wondering if I’ve heard him wrong. “What for? You didn’t really do anything wrong.”

 

“I kinda stormed out without an explanation.” he shifts a little. I wonder what expression is on his face right now.

 

“...I guess.” I shrug noncommittally, ignoring the fact that I’d stressed about it for days. He’s obviously not feeling well and it wouldn’t do to make him feel guilty. “It’s okay.”

 

“If you say so.” There isn’t really any relief in his voice, it’s more monotonous than anything. He doesn’t push for further forgiveness or to try and drive any point home.

 

“...Newt,” Another lock of hair falls as I resume. I’m choosing my words carefully, afraid of making him withdraw in some way.  _ Did I do something wrong? _ I wanna say, but I also don’t want to make it about me. “Are you...doing okay?”

 

“I dunno, Eddie.” he breathes, shoulders heaving. “Maybe.”

 

“...is it...anything you can talk about?” I prod gently, biting at my lip again. It’s quiet for another moment, the only sound being the metallic  _ snip snip _ of the shears. 

 

“No.” he says bluntly. Something twists in my chest. “Listen, Eddie, can we just...not do this?”

 

I freeze, stomach sinking. “D-Do what?”

 

“The whole ‘tell me all your worries’ thing.” Newt says dryly. “I just want to...be normal. Talk about anything else, please. Talk about yourself or, I dunno, just -- anything at all.”

 

“Oh...okay.” Swallowing, I wet my lips while considering his words. Now that he’s asked me to speak, everything about myself seems to have fled my mind. My dreams, maybe? Things I liked? It was hard to find interesting topics of conversation when all we had was the Glade and a repetitive daily routine. “Did I ever tell you...about my odd feelings?”

 

Newt grunts out a negative, keeping his head still as I trim the hair around his ear. 

 

“Well,” I begin, thinking back to how I’d first noticed it my very first day here, “I know this might sound crazy, but ever since I showed up here in the Box, I’ve felt like something was missing. More than -- more than just the memories. It’s like a phantom limb...like there’s a piece of myself I don’t have, but I know it was  _ there _ ...I just don’t know what it is.” I purse my lips, feeling sheepishly. “Sorry, I bet I sound crazy.”

 

“...no.” Newt murmurs, “You don’t sound crazy…I believe you.”

 

“It’s just,” Now that I’ve opened the ‘box’ so to speak, I can’t help but spill all my thoughts. “Sometimes it gets weird. Like I’m feeling things that...that aren’t  _ me _ . Which doesn’t make any sense, I know...but…” I shrug helplessly. “There’s this disconnect. With my own emotions, I  _ know _ that I’m feeling them and what they are and  _ why.  _ But these ones? They come randomly! I’ll be sitting here just writing in the journals and suddenly I’ll feel sad or angry but it’s  _ muted _ . Like...like  _ static _ . Now I know that  _ that _ sounds crazy, but I...I’ve been thinking about it. What if...”

 

I take a breath, brushing a hand through the hair at the back of Newt’s head and knocking loose strands out. He tilts his head back to make brief eye contact, nothing judging or skeptical on his countenance. 

 

“What?” he asks, turning back around when I gently tap his head. The hair around the opposite ear is trimmed as well. I lean back a bit to check that it’s even on both sides before continuing. 

 

“You’ve seen the scars, Newt.” I murmur. The scars are inescapable, a lot of them being on my hands and therefore always in my field of view. “What if...whoever had me,  _ us _ , before...what if they did something to me?”

 

“You mean aside from beat the shit outta you?” he scoffs, incredulous.

 

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see it, “ _ Yeah _ , aside from that, smartass.”

 

“Well,” he concedes, “I wouldn’t put it past them. Who knows what the Creators can do?”

 

“Still don’t know what exactly  _ it _ is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not normal.” At least, as far as I knew you weren’t supposed to have secondary emotions like this. “Maybe I  _ am  _ crazy.” I muse.

 

“Nah, you’re the most sane here, I’d say.” Newt says flippantly, a little more life coming back to him. He seems far more relaxed now than he was initially. “Whatever it is, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

 

“Well…” Bashful, I duck my head down for a second. Pointless, seeing as Newt is facing away from me and I have no reason to feel nervous. “Thanks. I think. You’re the only one I’ve told, so it was kinda weird to put into words.”

 

“...really?” he seems to perk up a bit at that. “I’m the only one you’ve told?”

 

“Well it’s not exactly casual conversation, now is it? If I went around tellin’ everyone they’d think I really was crazy.” Chuckling, I move to the front of him, ready to start on his too-long bangs. “Still, I knew I could trust you not to make fun of me, if anything.”

 

“I wouldn’t…” he meets my eyes, looking tired yet imploring. “I’d never make fun of you, not if you were being serious.”

 

“Thanks.” I give him a smile, finding his considerate nature adorable. Even looking like he’d rather sleep for a decade or be anywhere but here, he’s still watching out for my feelings. I slip my fingers through the strands of hair hanging over his eyes, measuring before I trim. “Ditto.”

* * *

Newt’s hair came out decent, maybe a little choppy, but everyone’s hair was like that. We weren’t professionals. Luckily his hair was wavy enough that the slight swirls disguised the uneven ends. It was certainly better than my first attempt at cutting hair some months ago. Newt even stayed behind to help me sweep up the hair on the floor, most boys weren’t aware enough to stick around. It was nice. Newt was good at thinking about others and looking at the smaller details. It still surprised me that he wasn’t chosen to at least be the second-in-command -- not that Alby wasn’t a good co-leader, he was just a bit...brash and short-tempered. Alby may be kind and good at rounding everyone up, yes, but Newt had a way with words that made you stop and think. Both Nick and Alby actually took  _ his  _ advice when he gave it, and even sought him out when things got out of hand. Newt was like some unofficial third-in-command and he wasn’t even a Keeper.  _ Minho  _ was the Keeper of the Runners. It was weird that someone so good at being a leader wasn’t one in  _ any  _ shape or form. Not that Minho was a bad Keeper! He was probably one of the best we could ask for to lead the Runners.

 

“Are you going to dinner?” Newt asks, his back to me as he dumps the wooden pan of hair outside. I put the broom away next to the cabinet, double checking that it’s securely closed. 

 

“Yeah, I just wanna stop by the wall for a sec.” I make my way over to come up beside him, taking the pan from his hands. He relinquishes it without comment, watching as I turn around to put it away next to the broom.

 

“The wall?” he questions, not asking  _ which _ wall but rather  _ why _ . There’s only one place I could be talking about, after all. When I turn back around I see a look of realization cross his pretty features. “Oh….again, Eddie?”

 

“I know…” I sigh. “Minho already told me that it’s not healthy. I get it. I just hate visiting the Deadheads, so this is my way of paying respects.”

 

“No. It’s alright. I get it.” he follows me when I make my way out of the Medhut, walking the familiar path to the wall of names. “As long as you aren’t spending hours here. It’s understandable, wanting to pay respects. You’re not still blaming yourself, are you? This isn’t a guilt thing?”

 

It might be. I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like it is. I just like to the look at the crossed out names -- well, I don’t like it. I hate it, actually. But I look at them and remind myself to do better. I  _ promise _ myself I’ll do better. I may not be able to be a fully certified doctor, but I can learn from my mistakes. 

 

“No.” I stop in front of the wall, a few feet away. My eyes seek out the slashed names. They stand out more than the others, like scabbed-over wounds. “I mean, I’ll probably always feel a little guilty even if I know it wasn’t my fault. But it’s not about that. I come here so I can remember them, and to make the promise to keep going. I’m gonna do whatever I can to improve and learn how to be  _ better _ .”

 

“Ah.” Newt nods, glancing at the names and lingering on the slashed out ones himself. “Well. That’s good.”

 

“You were right,” I mutter, rocking back and forth on my heels for a second before turning around. Newt raises a brow at me, turning as well to head towards the Homestead.

 

“Oh yeah? About what?”

 

“I didn’t push him off, so I can’t feel guilty about him dying. It took a few days and a lot of...of struggling through bad thoughts, but I’ve accepted it. I don’t  _ like  _ it -- but...” I shake my head, I’d spent a few nights just thinking about what I could have done differently, but Alfred had been unresponsive the whole damn time we’d had him. He could have been beyond saving before Hank even got him back to the Glade, that head injury alone enough to take him out. “There’s no denying it. It was the fall that killed him.” 

 

“...yeah.” Newt glances at me, voice low and face half-shadowed by the dimming light. “The fall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit guys, this is most I've ever written for a story in MY LIFE!! and we aren't even close to being done....wow. I've been updating about once a week consistently, so here's to keeping that motivation up !!


	8. Riptide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in three days?? wow. i literally whipped this up in like,,, 48 hours.

A mechanical whirring wakes me. Grumbling and scrunching my eyes and nose, I shift in my hammock. It’s still dark out when I peer around to locate the sound, cursing the fact that I’m a light sleeper. Still foggy with sleep, I don’t see anything nearby that immediately catches my attention. Just as I’m about to give up and go back to bed, I hear it again. A faint clicking. It sounds like -- tilting my head, I look straight up to the roof of the canopy...and promptly shriek.

 

I don’t mean to. I’d never willingly make so much noise so late into the night, especially when there are boys sleeping in hammocks just feet away. But the sight of a Beetle Blade perched right above me downright scares the _shit_ out of me. It’s gross! With it’s long, worm like body and _honestly why aren’t they called Centipede Blades or something?_ The mechanical bug jerks at my yell and _falls._ Right. On. Me.

 

This time the scream I let out is twice as loud as the initial, _startled_ shriek. I hear commotion around me but I’m too busy scrambling and flailing and toppling out of my hammock, the cloth twisting up in my legs. The Beetle Blade’s legs pierce my skin as it scrambles across my body and dodges my whipping limbs. I hit the ground with a thud and a grunt, shoulder taking the brunt of the fall.

 

“Off! Off! Off!” I yell, franticly batting at the grotesque machine and crying out in pain when I feel its legs prick me. “Oh my god, get it off!”

 

Something clips my side. It smarts, but I ignore that in favor of the relief I feel when the motion knocks the Beetle Blade off of me. There are shocked and disgusted exclamations as it scurries away speedily and disappears into the dark. I lay there panting on the ground, one leg still caught in my hammock. In the faint light of a nearby lantern, I can make out a few figures surrounding me. Hands grasp at my person, trying to help me up. I gasp in pain when a hand brushes my shoulder.

 

“Shuck, sorry Eddie.” It’s Minho’s voice. “Jesus, that was crazy! What hurts?”

 

I can’t respond, too busy sucking in lungfuls of air and trying to calm my racing heart. Someone untangles my leg from the hammock. When squint I see that it’s Newt, who afterwards crouches beside me next to Minho. A few other boys glance over, probably wondering if I’m okay or what the commotion was about. I flush hotly at the attention, embarrassed that I made a scene despite the real fear I’d felt when the robot bug had dropped onto me.

 

“Back to bed!” Nick, I recognize his voice, yells out. Some boys grumble but everyone who’d gotten up shuffled back to their hammocks. He drops to one knee beside me, tone quieter, “Hey man, breathe, will you? The shuckin’ bug is gone now.”

 

“Jesus.” I gasp, groaning and putting my face in my hands. That had been more terrifying than I was willing to admit.

 

“C’mon now,” Minho murmurs, hauling me up into a sitting position. Newt puts a hand on my arm.

 

“I think I fell on my shoulder,” I whisper, wincing as I stretch out my arm. A few parts of my chest and abdomen sting as well, likely where the Beetle Blade’s needle-like legs had stabbed me.

 

“Is it bad?” Nick asks, before the two Runners can open their mouths.

 

Carefully, I prod at the area with my fingers. It’s sore and throbbing, but there’s no excruciating pain or pocket of space to signify a broken or separated shoulder. I sigh, mourning the fact that there’s no ice in the Glade to reduce the swelling that will certainly appear. “No, probably gonna bruise like hell though.”

 

“Anythin’ else?” Newt asks, glancing at my torso. I squint down at it, seeing a few dark spots on my shirt in the faint light. I slip my fingers under and tug the fabric up, revealing a couple pin-prick wounds. They aren’t bleeding heavily, there’s just a some drops of blood. Still, it’s enough to stain the fabric a little.

 

“Damn,” I mutter. Laundry is not gonna be fun.

 

“It’s not that bad,” Minho sighs, relieved. Then he tilts his head, glancing from my exposed abdomen to my face. “Is it?”

 

“No,” Shaking my head, I drop my shirt. It’s a lost cause by now, with the spots of blood and the tears in the fabric. “I’m fine. Just...freaked out.”

 

I hear Newt make a grunting noise, but when I turn to look at him he’s avoiding my gaze and Minho is wearing an expression of exaggerated innocence.

 

Nick nods, standing. “Good that. Well, let’s try and get some more sleep, alright?” He shuffles back to his own hammock a few yards away. Not very big on being comforting. He seems to have left that to Minho and Newt, who stay by me.

 

“Can you stand?” Newt asks, holding a hand out. I take it, letting him haul me up.

 

“Yeah, looks like it.” I smile at him shakily, dropping his hand to rub at my arms. I’m more than a little disturbed at the events that just occurred, peering around just to make sure no blinking red lights are nearby. Oddly enough, something apologetic burns in my gut. Those phantom feelings again. “Sorry for waking everyone up.”

 

“It’s fine. I’m pretty sure anyone would have reacted the same way if one of those things dropped on ‘em.” Minho shudders, grimacing.

 

“Nasty buggers,” Newt agrees, lips pursed like he’s sucked on a lemon. Everyone can agree that the Beetle Blades are disturbing and the very last thing you want to wake up to.

 

“Still,” I mutter, straightening out my flipped and tangled hammock. “You guys need to get up and run all day.”

 

“God, your guilt complex…” Minho sighs, rolling his eyes. “Shut up and go to sleep, you dork.”

 

“‘Sides, this was important. Those things aren’t exactly safe.” Newt points out, hovering a little like he thinks I’m about to fall over. “You’re lucky it didn’t get near your face or somethin’.”

 

“Yeah, it’d _really_ suck if that thing scratched up your pretty face.” Minho deadpans, lips twitching in amusement despite his attempt to keep his face expressionless.

 

“Git.” Newt snaps under his breath.

 

“Shut up, Min,” I huff, climbing back into my hammock carefully. “Take your own advice and go to sleep.”

 

Holding his hands up, the boy laughs quietly, “Alright, alright!” he smacks Newt’s side, “C’mon then, loverboy. You heard the doc, bedtime!”

 

* * *

 

“How’re you doin’, Bambi?”

 

I glance up at Ben, contemplating my response as he drops into the seat next to me. My fork taps absentmindedly against my plate. “Fine. Shaken, I guess?”

 

My shoulder still hurts, a deep tissue soreness that likely won’t go away for awhile. A few hours of sleep hadn’t rid me of the pain or magically healed the consequent swelling and bruising. I’d checked it upon waking up and there was a decent sized red and purple bruise on my left shoulder, as well as a light abrasion from the dirt ground scraping me unforgivingly, like a rug burn. Not that we’d ever had rugs. The _pinpricks_ on the other hand were merely superficial. They stopped bleeding likely within minutes and the only evidence was a few patches of aggravated skin on my torso and scratches. My shirt got the worst of it and I’d probably have to spend an evening sewing the tears. We couldn’t afford to waste clothing, it was a limited resource. The Creators weren’t very forgiving in that department. No replacement clothing, _ever_. Just clothes in different sizes when we outgrew them. If we didn’t grow, I’m afraid they’d let us wear out the few clothes we had until they were rags before sending up new ones.

 

He snorts, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “Mn ‘ess ‘nyun--”

 

“Yeah, I didn’t get a lick of that.” I shake my head, grimacing in disgust as he tries to speak with his mouth full.

 

Ben swallows, grinning, “Sorry, I was trying to say _I guess anyone would be._ ”

 

“I’ve been told.” Taking another bite of my breakfast, I wait until I’ve finished before speaking again. “But forget that, how’s Joe settling? Looks like a handful.”

 

Joe had come up over three weeks ago and was already being considered Runner material. A month ago Dan had switched from being a Track-hoe to a Runner, and with Joe we’d finally have seven Runners in the Maze every day. In just a few days the month probation would be up, and if he really wanted to be a Runner like he said he did, then Minho would let him in. Two more Runners and we could have eight in the Maze _and_ keep both Nick and Alby in the Glade instead of them taking turns running every day. I didn’t know _why_ they wanted eight specifically, but I’d heard Minho let the desired number slip out once.

 

“Ugh, he’s not made to stay a Builder, that’s for sure.” Ben shakes his head, chuckling. “Too much energy. I swear, Gally’s gonna pop him in the face one of these days if he doesn’t shut up. I can’t wait for the month to be up -- not that Joe isn’t a good guy!”

 

“No, I understand. Gally’s been more tense than usual, huh?” That’s no fun for anyone. While Gally is a relatively good guy, he has a hair-trigger temper and gets annoyed easily. It’s unfortunate that he’s not getting along with Joe, just not completely unexpected.

 

“Box day can’t come fast enough,” Ben agrees. Just a few days and a new Greenie would come up, month fourteen in the Glade would start, and Joe would be a Runner. I’ve almost been here for nine months, but it truly does feel like longer. I suppose it would, seeing as the entirety of my life is the memories I’ve made here. If you think about it, all of our lives began when we first woke up here. The lives we had before? Gone. Wiping memories meant taking away every experience we’d had and completely destroying the person we once were. Had I been stronger before? More willing to talk? More comfortable? I was pretty sure I’d always been anxious and shy. I had to have been, right?

 

Not that I could actually get any answers to these questions.

 

“Yeah…” I muse, trying to rid my head of those thoughts. It wasn’t good to dwell on the past, dealing with the lack of memories was troubling for a lot of the boys. _Newt included_. Still, with every new boy that came up I was only vividly reminded of my own experience and the reality of this world we lived in.

 

“Hey, are you sure you’re alright?” Ben waves a hand in front of my face. “You’re spacing out. Were you not able to get back to sleep or somethin’?”

 

Snapping back to attention, I shake my head sheepishly. “Sorry, maybe I am a bit tired.” It _had_ been hard to get back to bed. Every little sound had me sitting up and glancing around warily. I don’t know how long it took me before I finally fell back to sleep, but morning didn’t come long after.

 

“Well, if you’re lucky you won’t have much to do today.” the Builder offers a consoling grin. “Clint and Jeff might let you get away with takin’ a nap. Lucky shank.”

 

I laugh, internally agreeing with him. My two Med-jack friends would certainly let me sleep, but Gally could never be so forgiving.

 

* * *

 

“How’s the shoulder?” Clint tugs at the collar of my shirt, pulling it to the side and taut against my neck. He peers at the revealed skin without waiting for an answer.

 

“Better,” I answer anyway. He can see for himself that my shoulder has reduced in swelling over the past two days, and the bruising has started gaining a yellowish tinge. “I’m just glad it was my left and not my right, it’d make filling out these notebooks _literally_ painful.”

 

I flex my right hand with a grateful expression. The left hand doesn’t _hurt_ , but moving that arm does, especially since the bruise is right on the shoulder joint.

 

“Small miracles,” Clint agrees, releasing my shirt and rocking back into an upright position. “You know you really don’t have to do this, right?”

 

By ‘this’ he meant write down all my rudimentary knowledge about medicine and the human body in the extra notebooks we had. I thought it would be wise to do so, to make training any new Med-jacks we got easier or for...for in case I wasn’t around when they had a question. It wasn’t like I thought I was going to die anytime soon, but no one was safe here. Not really. Anything at all could happen, that’s just how life worked. It was better to be prepared for every possibility.

 

“I know, but I want to. I’d feel better to have it all here in one place.” Tapping my pen against the notebook, I give him a grin, “Besides, it’s for my own benefit too! What if I forget something?”

 

“Mmkay,” he hums, moving back over to his station and sitting down on his own stool. “Just don’t push yourself. I’m still tempted to put that arm of yours in a sling.”

 

“It’s really not that bad, Clint!” I poke at my injured shoulder, it only smarts a little bit. “Trust me, if I really think I needed a sling, I wouldn’t stop you.”

 

“Alright, alright!” he concedes, holding his hands up. “But I’m watchin’ you!”

 

“We both are,” Jeff chips in, “Physicals are coming up!”

 

“Ugh,” I mutter, placing a hand over my eyes. “And I’m getting the new Greenie this time, aren’t I?”

 

“You sure are!” Jeff chirps. Neither he nor Clint have brought up that I’m one Glader behind them because of Alfred. They haven’t mentioned letting me take on two Greenies in a row to catch up and make the numbers even, I think they just don’t want to bring back any bad memories. I wouldn’t mind it, taking on another. It didn’t seem fair that they were always one ahead of me and therefore dealing with more ‘patients’.

 

Maybe I’d wait a few more months, just until everything felt a little more settled -- then bring it up if they didn’t.

 

“Right.” Sighing, I make a mental reminder to pull everyone’s journals out sometime in the next two days. “Well, I hope he’s one of the calmer ones.”

 

“As if we’re ever that lucky.” Clint mutters.

 

“Hey, you had me,” I point out. My quiet arrival into the Glade was always brought up, mostly when the Gladers said they wished the Greenies would ‘pull an Eddie, just once’. It was kinda humbling.

 

“Still waiting for a repeat performance, please.” Jeff holds up his hands, pressing his palms together like he’s praying.

 

“Slim it, shank.” I toss my pen at him, forcing him to duck and make a sound of surprise.

 

“Hey!”

 

* * *

 

The new kid that comes up has skin the color of cinnamon, dark hair and stunning hazel eyes. He bolts the second he’s out of the Box. I don’t know if he even saw the Maze walls before he hit the Deadheads, sprinting deep into the forest. It takes the combined effort of half the Glade to find him and then toss him in the Slammer.

 

The makeshift jail is looking a lot better these days, far more sturdy than it was when I first arrived. We’ve shifted from a shoddy fort to deep burrows in the ground, covered by a triangular roofs. One side a sheer wall of wood, the other a crosshatched door.

 

The Greenie hollered for a half hour straight before quieting down and actually listening to what Nick had to say.

 

“He’s annoying,” Alby complains during his physical. We’d started them shortly after all the materials were taken out of the Box. “Five minutes into Nick’s explanation and he’s askin’ where all the shuckin’ girls are!”

 

“Bet he was disappointed to hear that there aren’t any here.” I chuckle, going through the usual routine of checking his reflexes.

 

“Like you wouldn’t _believe_ \-- and after bein’ told there weren’t any, he immediately asked if we at least had any decent shanks around here.” Alby groans, “Sure, some of the other boys have made a few comments about it, but no one’s ever made a fuss like _this_ kid has! ”

 

I jot a few notes down in his journal, smiling despite his aggravation, “Ignore it, he’ll adjust. Everyone else has -- besides, there are plenty of good lookin’ boys in the Glade for him to choose from.”

 

“Ugh, lord help whichever unlucky shank _he_ sets his eyes on...”  he grumbles.

 

“Well, annoying personality aside, do you think he’s calm enough to get his physical over and done with?” I ask, closing Alby’s journal with a snap. “Assuming you don’t have any issues you want to mention?”

 

“No _medical_ ones.” the second-in-command jokes, sliding off the bed. “We let him out of the Slammer, so he should be fine. I’ll send him over -- if he causes you any trouble just yell.”

 

“Will do,” I reply, nodding and waving as he exits the Medhut. The new journal that came up is still blank, but while I wait I start organizing it into sections and writing down labels. The name won’t be filled out for a few days, not until the Greenie remembers it.

 

I’m just about done when I hear a faint knock against the wall at the entrance. Glancing up from my work, I see the Greenie peering in, hazel eyes cataloging the inside of the Medhut. Now that I get a closer look at him, he looks to be about fifteen -- around Newt’s age, maybe? Not that I think there’s any significant age gap between us. Months at most.

 

Sitting up a little straighter, I aim a bright smile his way, “Hey there, Greenie! How’s it goin’?”

 

Hazel eyes meet mine, analyzing my face with unnerving intensity. I blink and shift under the attention.

 

“Oh, wow.” he smiles back roguishly, revealing straight white teeth and dimples. “Now what do they call you?”

 

“Eddie,” I gesture to one of the beds. “I’m a Med-jack -- basically a doctor in this place. I’ve been assigned as your primary physician. Do you mind if we do a basic check-up?”

 

“Please,” the Greenie says, striding into the room and plopping onto the bed with flare, “Feel free to check me out as much as you want.”

 

“ _Christ,_ ” Clint snorts from the other side of the hut, running a hand down his face. The Greenie shoots Clint a look, piercing gaze shifting from him to Jeff before turning away with disinterest clear in his expression.

 

With clinical precision, I continue through the familiar procedures of taking his temperature and looking down his throat and testing his reflexes. It’s a little awkward with the way his eyes follow my every movement. While he certainly looks curious about the process, his gaze feels a little too heavy to just be that.

 

“Diligent, aren’t you?” the Greenie notes, licking his lips. “I like that.”

 

“Uh, thanks.” I think. Maybe he’d interested in being a Med-jack? “Clint, can you help me with the pulse?” Grasping the Greenie’s forearm, I press my fingers to his wrist. The Greenie shoots me a sly smile, leaning back a little with his weight on the other arm and watching my face.

 

“Sure,” Clint’s reply is strained, as is his own grin. “One, two, three…”

 

I count the beats I feel under my fingertips, ignoring everything else but the fluttering pulse. One, two, three, four. The Greenie shifts a little, running a hand through his black hair. I barely register the movement. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. Even with my focus on counting heartbeats, I can still feel the full weight of this new kid’s attention. Being scrutinized like this unsettles me a little.

 

“Sixty,” Clint finishes, looking decidedly unimpressed. I notice that his brows are furrowed and he’s almost _glaring_ at the boy lounging on the medbed. I wonder what he’s done to make Clint dislike him -- he hasn’t even been here long!

 

“Ok,” Repeating the number I’d ended with in my head, I leave the Greenie’s side and grab the journal to note it. “We’re just about done.”

 

“Already? That’s too bad.” the boy says, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. His eyelashes are long and dark, standing out against the white of his eyes and the hints of green in his irises. They flutter slightly as his gaze turns hooded. “I was hoping we could spend a little more time together. For a physical we weren’t very _physical_.”

 

“You’ll be seeing me everyday.” My brows draw low, confusion on my face. “The Glade isn’t that big -- anyway, _almost_ done doesn’t mean _done_. We have a few personal questions to get through first.”

 

Clint and Jeff make identical sounds of amusement.

 

* * *

 

“Eddie, I’m just saying -- be careful around the new kid, alright?” Jeff pats my shoulder as we head to dinner. “He seemed a little _too_ friendly if you get what I mean.”

 

“Um, isn’t that good?” Being friendly was better than being aggressive, wasn’t it? “At least he’s not lashing out at anyone.”

 

“Eddie _no,_ ” Clint groans, palm meeting his forehead. “God, _Bambi_ really is a suitable name for you, isn’t it? Are you incapable of looking at anything without pure-hearted innocence?”

 

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” I exclaim, unsure if I should feel insulted or not.

 

“The Greenie was flirting with you, Eddie!” Jeff blurts out, hands tossed in the air. “He couldn’t have been more obvious about it -- I mean, that slinthead was eying you up like Doug does Frypan’s special cakes!”

 

“WHAT!” I yelp, then clap my hands over my mouth when a few boys nearby turn to look. That couldn’t be true, could it? Now that I think about it...he did express a lot more interest in me than he did with Clint and Jeff. Plus, he seemed to smile a lot at me and _oh god,_ those were definitely really bad pick up lines!

 

My realization must have shown on my face, because both my friends burst out laughing. I don’t see what’s so funny about it -- the kid is way too….too _much_ . There’s no denying that Henry is unfairly attractive by most standards. His dark hair and deep bronze skin contrasted with the hazel-green of his eyes and his bright teeth. Pretty features. Straight nose and full lips and long eyelashes. He had dimples -- which was cute. _He_ was cute. But. _But._

 

I wasn’t attracted to him. I’d known the guy for all of five minutes and despite his handsome countenance I just _wasn’t_ interested. His attractiveness was obvious, but that didn’t mean I had to _like_ him. He just didn’t seem to be my type. Which was odd, seeing as I wasn’t even sure what my type _was_ and I was judging the Greenie based on a short interaction.

 

Head in the clouds, I went through the motions of gathering my dinner with Clint and Jeff and moving to sit at a table. Robotically, I shove a forkful of food in my mouth, expression unknowingly contemplative. Despite my friend’s assumptions, I wasn’t entirely _innocent_ or _oblivious._ When I looked at _other_ people it was easy enough for me to see when they were attracted to _other_ people, it was just that when that attraction was directed at _me_ it went over my head. Lust and attraction were easy enough to see. But I couldn’t understand why someone would like _me,_ so I just...refused to see it. If I thought that someone might like me, my own brain would make up an excuse to turn it platonic. Not that I actually thought anyone felt anything romantic or sexual towards me.

 

Aside from the Greenie, it would seem. Though that was one hundred percent _lust_ , not love or anything of the sort. He was attracted to my physical features...my _body_. He didn’t know a single thing about me aside from the fact that I was a Med-jack. Ugh, thinking about this whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth. Or maybe that was just the stew.

 

“Eddie. Hey. Eddie, Ed, Bambi!” Fingers snapped in front of my eyes. I jerked, following the hand to the body and face it was connected to.

 

“Minho.” The boy is far too amused by my confused state, while Newt is a stoic figure beside him. I note that the blonde doesn’t seem to be eating much and isn’t really looking at anyone.

 

“Yeah, shuckface.” the dark haired Runner snorts, “You wanna tell me what’s going on with you? You’ve been spaced out for like five minutes.”

 

“The Greenie is lusting after me physically.” I say.

 

Minho chokes on his own spit. Newt drops his fork, food splattering on the table. Clint and Jeff burst into guffaws on either side of me.

 

Laughing nervously, Minho shoots Newt a glance before speaking, “Oh. Uh, wow, that’s -- that’s somethin’. How, uh, how do you know?”

 

The blonde stares at the table blankly, not even moving to pick up his fork. I briefly look at him with concern, wondering what’s on his mind. It’s not like I’m actually considering the Greenie for...anything. It wouldn’t be any of Newt’s business if I did -- but I wouldn’t, so there’s nothing to worry about. Not that I think me having something with the Greenie would be worrying to Newt. Because it wouldn’t be. Obviously.

 

“The shank couldn’t have been more obvious about his intentions if he _tried._ ” Jeff scoffs, face twisting in distaste. He doesn’t seem to approve.

 

“Well, he could have been -- had he just straight up said _I wanna fuck you._ ” Clint chips in, blunt.

 

“ _Clint!_ ” I hiss, feeling heat bloom across my cheeks at his crass words.

 

“What!?” he waves a hand flippantly, looking at me like I’m being ridiculous. “He was _literally_ undressing you with his eyes the whole time. I felt slimy just watching it happen.”

 

“Especially when you gave him the lube,” Jeff adds, shivering dramatically. “ _Ugh,_ boy was achin’ for it. Honestly I dunno how you didn’t notice it right then, he literally said _you’ll have to show me how to properly use it sometime._ ”

 

“...I thought he was just teasing…” I mutter weakly, realizing how obvious the Greenie really had been. While I’d definitely noticed the sexual undertones of his words, I’d taken them with a grain of salt. He was a horny teenage boy, it was expected for him to make explicit jokes and comments at his age. “I mean, I’m nothin’ special.”

 

“You…” Minho shakes his head, sitting back in his seat. He opens and closes his mouth a few times like he can’t find the words he wants to say. “Wow.”

 

“Eddie, I dunno if anyone’s ever told you -- but you’re kind’a pretty.” Jeff puts a hand on my arm, a mockingly consoling expression on his face. “It’s hard to hear, I know...but you’re the farthest thing from the ugliest shank in here, who, by the way, is definitely Gally.”

 

“Aw, shut up,” My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “You’re jus’ bias because you’re my friend -- and Gally isn’t that bad!”

 

Newt stands suddenly, plate and reclaimed fork in his hands. Jerkily, he turns and leaves the table. The four of us left watch him with varying looks, Minho twisting his torso to watch his friend make his way to the dish drop-off.

 

“Newt?” I call out, eyebrows scrunching in confusing. He doesn’t stop.

 

“‘M tired. I’m headin’ in early.” he calls over his shoulder, knuckles white with how tightly he’s gripping the plate in his hand. I stare after him with deep concern. He’s definitely distancing himself a lot more lately -- these past few days it’s just been getting worse.

 

Minho sighs deeply, turning back around to face the table once Newt is out of sight. His jaw is tense and the bags under his eyes look worse than any other time I’ve seen them. “Aw, hell.”

 

“What’sa matter with him?” Jeff asks, food in his mouth.

 

“...I don’t really know.”  Minho stares down at his plate. I think he’s lying.

 

He must be lying.

 

* * *

 

Now that I know the Greenie ( who is _Henry_ two days later ) thinks I’m attractive, any interactions with him give me anxiety. I don’t like him, yet he obviously likes me and that just makes me feel increasingly awkward because _everyone_ here knows how badly I am at dealing with confrontation. I have a hard time saying no, not wanting to disappoint or fall into any arguments. I’ll fidget, silent and considering while trying to say it ( just a single word, _no_ ), and will never actually utter the word because I’m too nervous to do so.  The boys closest to me have learned that if I don’t answer ‘yes’ right away -- as in, within seconds of being asked -- then it’s the opposite. A negative. A _no._

 

When Henry asks me to eat lunch with him on his third day in the Glade, I pause. I really don’t want to. Not because he isn’t a decent kid -- but because I _know_ I’ll have to sit through his flirting and desiring gaze. He can’t help being attracted to me ( jeez, that sounds pretentious ), so I’d never blame him for that. I know lust and love aren’t things you can just turn on and off. But since I don’t reciprocate the desires he has it makes me feel…. _uncomfortable._

 

“Uh…” I stutter, lips parted with surprise. “Um.”

 

God, I wish I could just say _no_ , even when there isn’t really a good excuse to do so. I don’t want to make him feel bad. I feel my hands shake a little from the anxiety. Desperately, I wish I hadn’t stayed behind while Jeff and Clint went out to lunch a few minutes earlier. Henry had probably been _waiting_ to get me alone.

 

Distraught but hiding it, I give him a smile that’s more grimace than anything, “....Sure.”

 

Henry’s face doesn’t _light up_ per se, but he gives me a megawatt smile that shows off his dimples and wrinkles the corners off his eyes. He really _is_ good looking. But my heart doesn’t skip a beat and there aren’t any butterflies kicking up a storm in my gut. Instead, my palms feel sweaty and my stomach aches a little from stress. Eating lunch is officially the last thing I want to do right now.

 

But I do it anyway. One painful bite at a time. Time seems to be against me, moving slower than I remember. Isn’t lunch usually over by now? It doesn’t help that Clint and Jeff shoot me looks from the next table over, equally humored and sympathetic. I wish they’d come over just to save me from Henry’s constant chattering. I don’t mean to, but I find my gaze wandering from my food to the walls around me. I trace the length of each of the long tables in the Homestead, counting each boy present. Noting the empty seats, and noting the approaching _lack_ of empty seats. Soon we’ll have too many boys to fit in here. We’ll have to eat outside. There’s barely enough space in here as it is, and this is with the Runners out in the Maze.

 

Thinking of the Runners makes me think of Newt. I wonder how he’s doing, his silence has been even worse ever since he stormed away at dinner three days ago. Well. _Stormed_ might be a harsh verb, though it’s true he obviously wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

 

A hand brushes my own. I flinch, eyes refocusing. Henry traces a few of the scars on my fingers, staring at the white lines before flicking his gaze up to peer at my face beneath his eyelashes. It’s a coy, heated expression. One that makes me swallow and feel dread settle in my gut.

 

“Where’d you get these, then?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested. Everything about him is open and honest and _genuine_ , isn’t it? He’s not afraid to express his desires. Too bad those _desires_ are the exact opposite of my own.

 

“I-I don’t really know. They were there when I came up in the Box.” My fingers twitch, the urge to tug them away from his grip growing by the second. I hope the sheer panic I feel isn’t as present on my face as I think it is.

 

“Hmm,” Henry hums, fingers curling gently against my own. “So -- ”

 

“Eddie!” Doug’s hands drop onto my shoulders. Startled, I rip my hand from Henry’s grip to clasp at the Builder’s wrists.

 

“Jesus, Doug!” I grumble, dropping my arms once I realize that it’s him. I put my hands in my lap instead of back on the table, just to keep them out of Henry’s reach.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” my friend says, unapologetic. “Just lettin’ you know that Clint ‘n Jeff said they needed you for somethin’.”

 

Bewildered, I glance over my shoulder to see that the two other Med-jacks had disappeared from the other table. They’re nowhere in sight, meaning they must have finished lunch and headed back outside.

 

“Oh, alright.” I move to stand, Doug backing away so I can maneuver away from the table. “Uh, sorry Henry. Duty calls.”

 

“No, it’s fine.” He shrugs, “Busy man.”

 

Doug leers at the Greenie, smile decidedly _not_ nice. Henry doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, he is, isn’t he? Try not to distract him too much, you got that Greenie?”

 

Henry sits up, eyes narrowing. I decide to book it over to the dish-drop and out of the Homestead before I can witness any sort of fight. Secretly, I’m really glad that Doug decided to confront Henry, even if I feel bad about the fact that it should be _me_.

 

Jogging over to the Medhut, I peer around and see both my friends lounging in their stools, looking perfectly content.

 

“Uh, Doug said you needed me for something.” I glance between the two of them.

 

“Nope.” Clint says, popping the ‘ _p’._

 

Jeff winks, “You can thank us, if you really want to.”

 

Immediately, I realize what they’ve done. My relief is a little too potent. “Thank you.”

 

They grin at me, looking all too pleased with themselves.

 

“But,” I purse my lips, “I think Doug was a little too happy to help.”

 

“Oh yeah,” the Med-Jack Keeper nods, his curly hair bouncing. “Well, no one is really happy about the attention Henry is givin’ you.”

 

“...why?” A disbelieving chuckle escapes me, lips curling into a confused grin.

 

“We’ve all known you long enough to see that the dumb shank is makin’ you uncomfortable.” Jeff interjects, looking shifty. “You do a lot to take care of us all, Eddie. We’re just lookin’ out for you in return.”

 

“Okay…” I stretch out the word, considering his reasoning. His dark eyes had flickered around as he’d spoken. I feel like I’d only gotten part of the truth. Maybe. I could just be paranoid.

 

“You _are_ uncomfortable, right?” Clint inquires, spinning his pen between his fingers. His question distracts me from Jeff’s shifty behavior. “We’re not all reading things wrong, are we?”

 

“No, you’re definitely reading it right.” I respond dryly, dropping onto my usual stool and exhaling a sigh. “I’m just bad at sayin’ _no_.”

 

“We’re aware.”

 

I shoot Jeff a look, unamused. He holds up his hands placatingly, a look of false innocence on his face. I don’t believe it for a second.

 

“Eddie, if you want us to talk to him, we will.” Clint says, tone serious. “I know you’re assumin’ it’s a crush -- and it probably is -- but that doesn’t mean he has to keep making you uncomfortable.”

 

I shift, brushing a hand through my hair and sighing once more. “I don’t know how to say _you’re not my type_ without it being really rude.”

 

“Some things you just gotta _say,_ man.” the Keeper insists, “There’s no sugar-coating it. You gotta be honest with him. I think a shank like Henry would appreciate that, if anything. He seems like an up-front kinda guy.”

 

His words make a lot of sense, settling some of the stress I’ve been feeling. While the idea of actually _saying_ these things to Henry is terrifying, at least I have friends at my back. They wouldn’t hesitate to confront the Greenie for me if I so wished, but matters like this were best dealt with between the involved parties only, and face-to-face at that.

 

“Just curious,” Jeff pipes up, resting his arms on the desk before him. “What _is_ your type? Because Henry’s a good-lookin’ kid and you’ve said you don’t care if it’s a girl or a boy.”

 

“Why, interested?” I tease, laughing when Jeff makes a face. I know it’s not that ( at least I’m fairly sure ), Jeff has only ever expressed interest in the idea of girls.

 

“Slim it,” he rolls his eyes, “You don’t have to answer--”

 

“No, it’s fine.” I shrug. I’m not entirely certain on what my ‘type’ is, but there’s a few vague traits I find attractive when I think about it. “I like someone...quieter. Henry’s a huge chatterbox -- not as bad as Joe, but still pretty talkative, ya know? Someone who can be comfortable in silence...someone who is dependable and strong…” Rubbing my eyes, I consider my next few words. “I don’t know...I like the idea of having a partner who can handle their own. Leadership qualities are pretty attractive, if I’m bein’ honest. They have to be smart -- not exactly intellectually, although that’s nice -- but smart like they know when enough is enough, or if somethin’ is a bad idea or not.”

 

Street smarts, or just general survival skills. Someone who I could trust to watch my back and who could take control of a failing situation. While I knew I’d do what I could under duress, I didn’t like making decisions or speaking out. I couldn’t have a relationship with someone too much like me, so a person who wasn’t afraid to speak their mind or take control was my ideal partner.

 

“And Henry is a loud, dramatic guy with a temper who falls into confrontation too easily,” Jeff concludes.

 

“Yeah, he’s, uh….” I wave my hand, “Something tells me he’d wear me out mentally and socially too quickly.”

 

“So….you’d want someone like Newt.” Clint hedges, peering at me innocently.

 

My heart thuds in my throat. “Yeah, I guess so.”

 

“Huh.” he makes a curious sound, like what I’ve said is the most interesting thing in the world. “Cool.”

 

* * *

 

Newt’s been avoiding me. More than the usual isolation schtick. For the life of me I can’t tell _why_ , he won’t even talk to Clint and Jeff either, because the two of them are always near me. I’m a little grateful for that -- I have a feeling Clint wants to tell Newt that I’m interested in guys like him, just to be an embarrassing friend. He was a little too eager to hear about how my ‘type’ coincided with a lot of the blonde Runner’s traits. I wonder if he’s trying to set me up...while Newt is the farthest thing from unpleasant, I still feel like we’re too young.

 

Not that I’m actually considering it, because that would be silly. He’s my best friend, after all!

 

When I wake that morning, dots of sunlight streaming through small patches in the canopy weaving, he’s already gone. I haven’t woken late -- the sky is still pink and orange -- but his hammock is vacant. I sigh, laying back in my own hammock for a few minutes, glancing past a hanging sheet to look at the Glade. It’s lovely in the early morning light, colors muted and washed in pastels. Everything seems softer when the day is just starting, a new dawn leading to new beginnings.

 

There’s a strange ache in my chest. I rub at it absentmindedly. Must be the stress getting to me, as it often does. Random aches and pains aren’t _odd_ , just uncommon in comparison to the weird secondary emotions. Extremely uncommon. I don’t really know why I think they’re related, but something tells me they are. Some kind of _instinct_ or ingrained belief.

 

“Something’s missing.” I mutter into the quiet morning air, words I’ve repeated countless times in the near _year_ I’ve been here. I’m sure my friends have heard me say them more than once. It’s like a mantra at this point, something I utter at least once a week out loud, usually when I wake or before I go to sleep. Sometimes I’m just so overwhelmed by the terrible feeling of being incomplete that I can’t help but verbalize it.

 

I’d brought it up to Clint and Jeff once or twice -- the depth of my feelings -- but they seem to think I’m talking about my memories in general and insist that everyone struggles with feeling off and empty. I do feel empty without my memories, but it doesn’t make up for that phantom sensation of being _half_. I reach for a hand that isn’t here, I turn in my hammock and don’t feel a body beside me...sometimes I feel like I’m a piece of a bigger picture. It makes me sad when I think about it too much, or when I let it sink into my thoughts at night before bed.

 

That dream I’d had a while ago, where I’d felt _whole_ for the first time I could remember, I haven’t had it since. When I lay down to sleep at night I hope for it to happen again, but it never does. Whoever that person in the dark was, the one who held my hand -- they’re important. Important enough that their disappearance from my life and my memory affected me on an emotional level.

 

It _was_ a person, too. For a while I didn’t know why I felt the way I do ( in a way, I still don’t ) but now I know that the reason isn’t because of some _thing_ but rather some _one_. That dream just solidified the theory. I wanted to know who they were. This person -- were they a girl or a boy or neither? Both? What was their name? Who were they to me? Why had my memories been taken, but not the sensation of their presence? What could possibly be strong enough to surpass the critical memory wipe we’d all obviously been subject to?

 

Questions like that kept me up at night too often. They filtered into my thoughts on slow days or when I was bored. I wanted to _know_ . I wanted to tell Newt about it. But Newt didn’t want to talk to me. He didn’t want to talk to _anyone_ . That made me feel a little less hurt -- knowing that it wasn’t just _me_ being ignored and therefore not a problem stemming from my own actions, but _less_ still meant it hurt a little. I wanted my friend back, but he’d sunk somewhere into himself without anyone noticing, and when we did, it seemed to late. Newt didn’t want to talk to us, he didn’t want to put in the energy for conversation, and he barely ate. He got up, ran into the maze, came back, ate a little, and slept. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

 

This morning was the same, except he was up before us all.

 

“Morning, Eddie.” Minho’s voice is still heavy with sleep. He tumbles from his hammock gracelessly and runs a hand through his bedhead.

 

“Morning,” I reply quietly, my voice normal because I’d been sitting awake for at least a half hour now, lost in my own head again. “You running late?”

 

Minho squints at the sun. “No.” he mutters. The sun is still barely a sliver behind the massive walls.

 

“Newt got up pretty early then.” He’d been gone before I’d woken, after all. “I dunno what drove him to, he usually likes getting as much sleep as possible.” Especially lately, when all he seemed to do was sleep if he wasn’t in the Maze or eating.

 

“Yeah.” the Runner agrees faintly, stretching and cracking his back. I wince at the sound. Minho shakes the dirt from his feet and tugs his running shoes on. “I’m gonna head to the bathroom, I’ll see you at breakfast.”

 

“Mmkay.” I mumble, deciding it’s probably time for me to get moving too. I slip from my hammock, feeling dirt and reed thatching beneath my feet. Raising my arms above my head, I yawn widely as I stretch out my sore muscles. My neck aches a little. I probably slept with my head at an awkward angle. Grunting, I tilt my head until the vertebrae in my neck crack. It’s temporary relief.

 

I’d showered last night so I still feel relatively clean, as do the clothes I’m wearing. A deep blue shirt with long sleeves and brown pants with at least three holes and patches on each knee. The pants are quickly becoming too short, my ankles almost completely visible. I’ll have to find longer ones soon, or hope that the Box sends up new pants. I must have grown at least two or three inches in the last few months. Brushing the dirt from my feet, I slip on the nondescript gray low-top shoes I’ve claimed as my own for the time being. I’ll need a new pair of these as well sometime soon, my toes are starting to feel cramped.

 

All these signs of me growing just serve to remind me that I’m _aging_ as well. I don’t know when my birthday is, or what age I was when I came up or even what age I am now. It’s all guesswork, but there’s no way I’m older than fifteen. Fourteen is more likely, though it’s hard to say for certain, that whole range of fourteen to sixteen is hard to distinguish by year. Then again, everyone grew differently. For all I knew, I was ahead or behind the norm. There really was no way of accurately determining ages.

 

I wanted to know though. Not knowing my own age made me feel a lot more disconnected than I cared to admit. It was odd, being in a body that I honestly knew nothing about aside from what I’d learned in the time I’d been here. You never realize how much life experience means until you don’t have access to it anymore.

 

I made my way to the bathroom slowly, contemplative in my silence. I was entering one of those moods I hated, left to my own thoughts for too long. Once I relieved myself and brushed my teeth, I hurried to the Homestead, eager to not be alone. Even if I didn’t talk to anyone, being surrounded by the other boys was comforting.

 

“Eddie!” Ben greets me as I enter, grin sleepy and what looks like a blanket imprint on his face.

 

“Ben.” I greet, giving him a relieved smile. Trust Ben to be able to bring up my mood, the boy was a real light in the dark. “Sleep well?”

 

“Sure did,” He’s in a good mood, even humming to himself as he eats. I wish I could say the same. But my chest still aches and I feel like something is wrong, like the world has just taken a breath before leaping and we’re all waiting for the inevitable moment we hit the ground and exhale.

 

“Ugh,” I tease, “Take your happiness away, it’s tainting my negative atmosphere.”

 

“Oh, my bad,” he laughs, twirling his fork and gesturing to himself with the utensil. “It’s just so hard to contain all _this_.”

 

“ _Lame_.” I groan and roll my eyes, shoving at his shoulder as I pass him, eager to get my own breakfast. Maybe I’ll feel better after eating.

 

“Don’t hate!” Ben calls after me, “We can’t all be _ruggedly handsome_ _rays of sunshine_.”

 

“Someone lied to you,” I yell back. “Probably didn’t want to hurt your feelings!”

 

He gasps like he’s mortally offended and clutches his chest. I snicker at his dramatics, feeling a little more at ease. Shaking my head, I toss a wave over my shoulder and finally get to where Wyck and Rob are setting out food, Jim and Fry in the back still cooking. I’m amazed I haven’t grown tired of eggs yet. At least the bacon isn’t burnt this time -- we’d given Jim shit for like a _week_ after he’d ruined a whole batch of the meat last month and weren’t planning on letting it go. The story was too funny to let go, now that we could look back on it and laugh.

 

When I have my food I drop into the seat next to Minho, who’s shoveling food into his mouth quick as he can.

 

“Whoa there,” I eye him with amusement. “Eager to get out of here?”

 

The Runner pauses in his eating, swallowing heavily and then sucking down half the water in his cup. “Yeah. You could say that.”

 

Glancing around, I can see that Newt isn’t here.

 

“Is Newt in the bathroom or something?” I ask, picking apart the piece of bread on my plate. The blonde’s absence is starting to worry me.

 

“No.” Minho swallows down another clump of scrambled eggs. “As far as I know, he’s not in the Glade.”

 

I couldn’t have heard that right. “You mean--”

 

“Yeah,” Minho grunts. “He already ran out into the Maze. Dumb shank skipped breakfast -- I don’t even know if he took a lunch. Fry didn’t have ‘em out yet, said that none in the storage were taken.”

 

“Wha -- he can’t just _not_ eat all day!” Running in the Maze for _hours_ without food? A recipe for disaster. I know Newt hasn’t been eating much lately, but this is going too far.

 

“Yeah, so I’m finishing up quick as I can and ‘m gonna try and track his shuckin’ ass down.” Minho growls, staring at his plate like it’s insulted him. “I’m gonna force feed him if I have to. Fry gave me extra food to take into the Maze.”

 

“Good that.” Suddenly my own food doesn’t look as appealing, the worry and stress twisting my gut until the thought of eating makes me ill. “Please find him.”

 

Minho glances at me as he moves to stand, finally done with his breakfast. “I’m gonna find him. I promise.”

 

I watch him go with a sense of foreboding, resting a palm over my heart as I’m hit with another burst of anxiety.

 

* * *

 

Henry was working with Billy and Jackson as a bagger today, which meant he was _far_ away from me. Day five of him here and I was already avoiding him like the plague. At this point, I couldn’t even bring myself to be _nice_ about it in my own head. I didn’t want to see him because I knew he’d just make my mood worse. Honestly, he’d be better off taking a hint, but I had a feeling I might really have to confront him about this. I dreaded the day, my fear of confrontation rearing its ugly head in the back of my mind.

 

I could do it if it came down to it, I wasn’t completely spineless! I just...preferred to ignore the problem until it went away when it came to social issues. Not good, I know. If I could be more like Minho...maybe this would have ended the very first day.

 

Awkward flirting woes aside, I had my hands full bandaging up Winston’s toes. One of the cows had stepped on his foot. His left big toe and the two next to it were purple and swollen. They didn’t feel broken -- but they could be fractured, so I put a makeshift boot on his foot using a couple planks of wood and padding.

 

“Don’t put too much weight on that foot, okay?” I instruct, “Use the stool and don’t stand all day.”

 

“You got it,” Winston nods, wincing as he shifts on the crutch. The painkiller I’d given him hadn’t kicked in yet.

 

“And don’t put all your weight on that crutch, okay? You can damage the nerves in your arm if you do that.” I point a finger at him, making him groan and stand up a little straighter.

 

“Yes, Doctor,” he drones, rolling his eyes. Then he peers down at his foot before looking a little sheepish. “Thanks, though. Really.”

 

“It’s my job,” That sounds a little impersonal. Oops. “I mean -- you’re welcome, Winston. Just be more careful, hm?”

 

“I’ll try!” he grins, like we both don’t know he’ll be back in here before the week’s out with a cut of some sort.

 

Nodding to me, he shuffles out, hobbling out on his crutch and one good foot. I watch him go carefully, wary of him falling over or losing his balance. My worry looks unfounded, it seems he’s taken to maneuvering foot to crutch pretty well. Good. Sven will keep an eye on him too, the boys look out for each other, being the only Slicers.

 

“I’ve never met a more accident prone shank,” Jeff shakes his head once Winston is out of earshot. “I swear, Sven isn’t even as bad as Winston.”

 

“Hey, he can’t help it -- it was the cow that stepped on him!” That was just this time, in all truth, Winston really _is_ pretty prone to injury. I don’t know why he was given to task to be Keeper of the Slicers. Probably because he was the only one comfortable enough with killing and skinning animals. Ugh. The very thought makes me sick. Those poor piggies...not that that stops me from eating Fry’s bacon for breakfast. Out of sight out of mind I guess. If I was a Slicer there would be no _way_ I’d be able to eat any meat.

 

“Knowing him, he probably wasn’t even paying attention. Stupid shank...”

 

“Jeff,” I scold lightly, “What’s got you in a mood?”

 

“Ugh,” he groans, sitting back in his seat and stretching his arms out. “Bad night’s sleep. Makes me cranky. Sorry.”

 

“Starts insulting the closest victim if he doesn’t get at least eight hours of beauty sleep,” Clint teases, sticking his tongue out at his friend.

 

“Hey! My good looks are important!” Jeff gestures to the whole of him.

 

Our Keeper just shakes his head, eyes raised to the ceiling. He looks like he’s heard this a thousand times, and he has. We both have. It makes me feel a little better, this usual routine of joking. I feel more comfortable -- but those secondary emotions don’t. In fact, they seem to be worsening in mood. I try to laugh as Clint and Jeff toss quips back and forth, but it sounds strained even to my own ears. I roll my shoulders, hoping to relieve tension. It keeps building.

 

“Eddie, are you alright?” a hand on my shoulder, skin a rich deep brown. Jeff. I blink up at him, wondering when he got out of his seat.

 

“Y-Yeah, why?” I ask, offering a shaking grin. The terror is building in my chest, and it doesn’t belong to me. The dream person -- is it them? What has them so scared? Their own raging emotional turmoil just kicks up my own anxiety. I don’t even know who it is, but their agony makes me feel awful. I want them to feel safe, wherever they are.

 

“You’ve gone all pale, Eddie, are you -- hey!” Clint grabs my other shoulder as I tilt forward and grip my head. It’s pounding, vicious pulses almost making my vision cross.

 

“Agh!” A cry slips out and I press my hands to my temples, hoping to soothe the ache. The pain comes rhythmically, like someone knocking on a door in a steady pattern.

 

_E…d...e…_

 

I jerk in my seat, looking at Clint and Jeff. They both look concerned, my name on their lips. But I didn’t recognize that voice. Frantically, I glance around the room, checking to see if someone else had slipped in the Medhut.

 

“Eddie, what’s the matter?”

 

I don’t know. I blink at Jeff, who’d asked the question. “Uh, just -- my head. Hurts.”

 

“Looked like a real bad one, if it was just a headache.” he looks concerned, dark eyes tracking the expression on my face. “Maybe you should rest a little, have you been sleeping?”

 

“Yeah, no -- it’s gone now, honest.” It was. The pain had stopped just moments ago, vanishing entirely like it’d never happened. I pressed a hand to my chest, still feeling a knot of anxiety. “I’ve been sleeping fine. Maybe it’s…”

 

“Stress?” Clint guesses, pressing a cup into my hand. It’s water. I gulp it down when he levels me with a look. “You really do take too much on, you know that? Lean on us a little.”

 

“Sorry…” I apologize reflexively, letting Clint put a hand to my forehead.

 

“You don’t feel warm, but maybe relax the next few days, yeah?” he urges, taking the now empty cup from my hand. “Can’t have you getting sick, now can we?”

 

“You work too hard,” Jeff shakes his head, relaxing now that my ‘episode’ is over. “We have time, Eddie. Not everything has to be done immediately.”

 

 _Do we?_ I think. _Do we really have time?_

 

While we were relatively safe here within the walls of the Glade, the Maze was still a dangerous place. It had been proven that we could die at any time. I needed -- I needed us to be prepared. So we wouldn’t lose anyone else if we could prevent it.

 

_Eddie._

 

I flinch. Glancing around, I see no one else beside us three. Jeff and Clint are both facing to the side, moving to get back to work now that color had returned to my face. Where had that voice come from?

 

_Eddie!_

 

I twist in my seat, looking over my shoulder in case anyone was just behind me, playing a joke. No one. Was I going crazy?

 

_EDDIE!_

 

It’s a scream so sharp it has me wincing, eyes narrowing. I open my mouth to ask the other two Med-jacks if they’re hearing it too, hoping they do and I’m not really going out of my mind.

 

_“EDDIE!”_

 

My mouth snaps shut. That certainly wasn’t the weird voice. No -- it was familiar, actually. Clint and Jeff look up, mirrored expressions of alarm on their faces.

 

“EDDIE! MED-JACKS!”

 

The stool clatters to the ground as I jump to my feet, bolting from the Medhut with my two friends on my heels. I know whose voice that is. It’s Minho. Minho who’d gone to look for Newt. The sun blinds me as I leave the shade, eyes squinting against the harsh light. I almost stumble, unable to see the ground, but I keep running. I’m full on sprinting towards the entrance of the maze, ignoring the shouts of other boys and Nick and Alby’s voices trying to contain the Gladers’ curiosities.

 

When my vision adjusts, I’m halfway to Minho and the voice in my head is all but forgotten. Nothing matters to me more than what I see -- nothing matters more than Minho’s lost, twisted countenance and the limp body he’s hauling into the Glade.

 

I see the sun glint off golden-bronze hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyy i bet you were all expecting the actual aftermath of Newt's suicide attempt in THIS chapter, huh? SURPRISE. it's another cliff hanger.


	9. Promise

Do you ever get those weird out of body experiences? The type where movement leaves afterimages and sounds are warbled? Upon seeing Newt’s pale and bloodied face, the whole of my reality seems to shift. I don’t even feel my knees tear open as I drop to them straight out of a full sprint, skidding a few inches across dirt and grass.

 

For single moment of eternity, I’m caught in flashbacks of three months ago, when Alfred died. But Newt’s pained moan brings me back to the present, relief escaping me in the form of a half-sob. Alfred hadn’t moved or made a noise when he’d been brought. Newt is still with us. Still _here_ with his eyes half open and fingers twitching.

 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Clint claps a hand over his mouth, breath catching in his throat. Newt’s right leg is twisted and bent at odd angles and what looks like his fibula -- _one of his goddamn leg bones_ \-- is poking out through the skin of his ankle.

 

“Stretcher.” I say stiffly, eyes on Newt’s leg. I can’t look at the pained expression on his pallid face anymore. “ _Jeff._ ”

 

Jeff starts, hands shaking. “R-Right,” he mumbles, turning and bolting back to the Medhut. Morbidly, I think that we should probably start just bringing the stretcher with us whenever we’re summoned by screaming.

 

Clint pulls Minho away from Newt and I ease the blonde down so he’s laying flat on the ground. He wheezes, eyelids fluttering. Tugging my knife from belt, I cut a line down his shirt without preamble, ripping the fabric apart. There is no thought to spare for the clothing, no matter how low we are on it. If we run out we can always just wear fucking blankets.

 

Newt’s chest heaves, a few shades paler than the tan expanse of his head and arms. Running my fingers down his ribcage, I’m almost knocked on my ass by the relief I feel when no breaks are to be found. I press down a little on his stomach and abdomen, pleased even further to find that there are no tense spots that aren’t just plain muscle. No internal bleeding. I’ll watch it for a few hours, just in case. But if we’re _lucky,_ if _Newt_ is lucky, there won’t be any at all. I tug one of Newt’s eyelids open, revealing a familiar chocolate brown iris. His pupils look a little large, meaning he’s probably hit his head. But he’s responsive. _He’s responsive._

 

Jeff arrives with the stretcher just as Clint disappears to start the water train. Minho rests on his hands and knees, forehead against the ground and shoulders shaking. There isn’t time to comfort him. I trace my fingers around Newt’s skull and the vertebrae of his neck. There’s a nasty set of gashes on his face, but at first glance it looks like the brunt of his impact was centered on his leg, and the head injury could be from after the limb folded beneath him once he hit the ground. The cuts and bruises aside, there doesn’t seem to be any breaks in his skull or face and as far as I know his neck is okay. Spinal injuries terrify me more than anything, because we have absolutely _no way_ to deal with them. I’ll have to rely on his twitching fingers and the shift of his good leg -- trusting that it means his spine is intact.

 

We lift him onto the stretcher, me holding his head and neck in place while a few boys grip different parts of Newt to ease the transfer. He cries out in pain as his leg is jostled and despite the obvious discomfort he’s in I’m relieved he still has feeling in his legs.

 

“Newt, can you hear me at all?” I ask, voice a few octaves higher than my normal volume. We’re almost to the Medhut, moving as quickly and as smoothly as we can to save him from any extra pain.

 

He groans in response, blinking dazedly. It’s not words, and I can’t even be sure he’s reacting to _me_ and not just the pain, but I take it as a good sign.

 

“Hold on, hold on,” I murmur as we make it through the door, maneuvering Newt onto the medbed. Apologies spill into the air from various mouths as Newt yells out in pain once more.

 

“Back up! Out, out!” I wave my hands, ushering the boys who’d helped out of the way so I can get a look at Newt’s leg. His pants are torn and bloody and blocking my view of the full damage.

 

Knife in hand, I wince everytime he cries out as I jerkily cut through the fabric. When it’s finally done I breath in deeply — and peel his pants back. I can’t afford to be nervous or have shaky hands. The first thing I do is check his thighs, pressing my fingers to the femoral artery on each one. Still pumping. The leg I’m worried about is twisted and from what I can tell, broken in more than one place. Just looking at the shape of his ankle -- he’s never gonna be a Runner again, not with injuries like these and the materials we have here.

 

“Ok.” I stare at the blonde, half writhing on the table in pain with tears streaming down his bloody cheeks. Determination fills my gut. “ _Hold him down._ ”

 

Jeff glances at me, then at Newt. “We’ll need extra hands.”

 

He brings in Alby and Zart. The way the two of them look at Newt is indescribable. They’ve been with him for so long that it’s impossible to look at his injured form without feeling _gutted_. Jeff holds Newt’s head still and Zart leans a bit across the blonde’s torso, pressing down Newt’s lithe arms. Alby stands off to the side until I see the extent of his left leg’s injuries. Thankfully, when I press my hand down the length I don’t feel any breaks, just tender spots. I nod at Alby and he moves to hold down the limb. I return my attention to the real problem -- his right leg.

 

I press my palm against the top of his thigh, near his hip bone. Newt grunts, but any struggling is minute. Slowly, carefully, I keep moving downward until my hand rests right above his knee and Newt _screams_.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry -- ” Choking back more apologies, I ignore his cries and trust the three boys to keep him still so he doesn’t aggravate any of his injuries. I feel around that spot a little more, until I’m sure that it’s not a _bruise,_  so it must be worse. I don’t feel anything odd, like a huge crack or split, so it must be a fracture. But that’s still a _break._ Still a broken bone. A fractured _femur_.

 

“Clint,” I call to the curly haired boy, who pauses in making the saline, “Splint this thigh. I need it locked in place.”

 

Newt’s kneecap doesn’t look out of place, but it’s purpling and swelling before my eyes. I press down on it and my jaw clenches when I hear Newt scream out again, his voice cracking under the strain. He thrashes weakly, the boys keeping him down and Clint stabilizing the leg I’m prodding. To my relief, the bone of his kneecap still feels whole and in its proper place, though I’m almost positive it must be fractured with the amount of pain he’s feeling.

 

“Christ,” I hiss. That’s two small breaks already -- fractures, though, are better than completely separated bone fragments. “Splint his knee too, I’m thinkin’ we’ll need this whole leg immobilized, to the point he can’t even bend it.”

 

There isn’t much we can do for the fractures, only keep them tightly splinted and held in one place so they can heal. Even if Newt needs surgery we can’t afford to risk it. Reaching around to the underside of his knee, I feel for a fluttering pulse -- it’s there. As long as it keeps pumping he shouldn’t lose his leg, right? God, I’m really not prepared for stuff like this -- even after Alfred, there’s still no way to learn how to fix breaks that require surgery!

 

Newt’s lower leg is the worst. His foot and ankle are swollen twice their normal size, and bone is sticking out of his skin. Blood spills from the wound and trickles down the medbed, dripping a puddle onto the floor. I look at the bone with trepidation and growing nausea before looking at Newt’s face, white as a sheet and covered in a layer of sweat. He’s murmuring words I don’t understand, body trembling.

 

“Tilt his head to the side.”

 

Jeff glances up, “What? But his neck--”

 

“Is fine,” I interrupt, he’d made it here with Minho dragging him, I have to believe his spine is intact. “Turn his head.”

 

Jeff does. I scrub my hands with soap, collect the tray of designated surgical utensils, and snap on a pair of latex gloves. “Clint, I need you to hold down the injured leg as carefully as you can. We can’t have it move. Gally--”

 

The Keeper pauses, half in the doorway with another pot of water. “Yeah?”

 

“I need you to make saline and pour it on his wounds as I work. Get Ben to take over the running. A spoonful of salt in each pot.” It won’t be exact but it will have to do.

 

Gally turns and calls for Ben, obeying without a word. There’s no time to waste asking questions. He sets down the pot and gets to work.

 

“I’m sorry, Newt.” I whisper, resting my hand on his ankle. I gesture for Gally to pour saline Clint had made on the wound, flushing away the dirt and sweat and blood. Iodine is rubbed into the swollen skin. “I’m so, so sorry.”

 

I pick up a knife.

 

* * *

 

It takes hours. Newt vomits from sheer pain and falls into unconsciousness thirty minutes in after screaming his throat to shreds. I almost sob in relief when he finally passes out.

 

But it’s over. His leg is as fixed as it’s gonna get, wrapped in disinfectant and bandages and held in place with various splints. The swelling is bad, I’d had to burn some of his wound closed to stop the bleeding -- Zart had thrown up at the smell -- and honestly I’m terrified his whole leg will just _die_. I don’t know if I can amputate a leg if it comes down to it, so I just have to hope it _is_ enough. As far as I know, his arteries are undamaged, but I can’t see them so it isn’t a _fact_.

 

Frankly speaking, Newt is incredibly lucky. Best case scenario, he recovers in four to six months, probably with a limp for life but _able to walk._ It could’ve been worse. It could have been _so much_ worse. Had he actually broken his femur or his kneecap or even just shattered his shinbone -- if the breaks had been _worse_ , he might have never been able to walk properly again.

 

I strip the gloves from my hands, dropping them onto the tray without thought. The other boys had released Newt’s prone form a few moments ago. He lays there like a corpse -- but he’s breathing. _He’s breathing_. Sweat-soaked and looking like death, but he’s so, so alive.

 

There’s more to do. We need to wipe the sweat from his body. Clean up the vomit and blood. We need to --

 

“Elevate his leg.” I murmur. My hands shake. “Gotta -- gotta keep it up to reduce swelling.”

 

“We’ll handle it.” Clint puts a hand on my shoulder, pulling me out of the medhut. The air outside is clean and smells like grass, a wonderful change when compared to the scent of iron and salt and _bile_ within the hut. I suck in lungfuls of air, holding my hands out before me and watching my fingers tremble. I’d cut him open. I’d slipped his bones back into his body. There’s dried rust on my shirt and near my wrists. This blood doesn’t belong to me, I shouldn’t have it. Shouldn’t -- shouldn’t _wear it!_

 

A figure barrels into me, strong arms and gold-mocha skin. The smell of sweat and linen.

 

“Minho,” I gasp, my arms winding around his stocky frame. He holds me up as I sag against him, vibrating out of my skin. “Minho, I can’t. I can’t. I need it off.” I shake my head, unable to form anymore words.

 

“C’mon, c’mon,” he says, arms still around me and tugging me away. I smell like blood. I smell like _Newt’s_ blood. Minho brings me to the bathroom, leading me into a shower stall. I don’t feel like I’m breathing. My vision tunnels.

 

“Ah!” I cry out, snapping back to reality. Cold water thunders against my heated skin. Minho maneuvers my body like I’m a child, stripping me off my belt and shirt and gesturing to my pants. I step out of both them and my shoes robotically, leaving my underwear on. I watch watered down crimson swirl around my feet. My knees are bloody messes, raw from sliding on the dirt. The wounds sting under the water, the ache keeping me afloat. I don’t think I can stand. Minho lowers me to a sitting position, the both of us down to our underwear and sitting with backs pressed to the wall. Cold water runs over us, keeping me aware.

 

“You did your best.” Minho says, voice low. His mouth twists and his eyes look misty. I don’t know if he’s crying, the water masks any tears. Our shoulders press together in silent comfort, both aching for a friend.

 

I feel heat lance up my spine and into the back of my eyes. They burn. I blink. When I breathe in it’s shaky and I feel like I’ve swallowed a stone. So many things could go wrong. Infection, shock, sepsis -- he could lose his leg, he could lose the ability to walk! It’s a _long_ road of recovery ahead of him. Both with healing and with rehabilitation.

 

“How---” My voice breaks into a sob, chest stuttering. “How did he….? A fall?”

 

Minho looks at me. Then he looks at the ground between his legs, where water collects and whirls down the drain. “I think he jumped.” he says, barely a whisper. “Oh god, Eddie, I think he jumped. He was tangled in the vines.”

 

Like the sun breaking over the walls, light spilling into the Glade -- I overflow. I break, folding in like I’ve been hit in the gut. My next exhale is a wheeze that chokes off into a mournful cry. Hot tears spill over my eyelashes, burning in comparison to the icy water. Had he? Could he have really? He’d sunk so low and -- _we’d just let it happen, didn’t we?_ Newt had been retreating from us all and we’d assumed he just needed time. He’ll come around, we’d said. He just needs to be alone, we’d thought.

 

When everyone here _knows_ that being alone in the Glade doesn’t lead to anything good.

 

“I didn’t see it.” Minho mutters, head dropped between his knees. I can barely hear his voice. “It happened once before, way in the beginning so I should’ve -- I should’ve _seen_ it!”

 

I cry in earnest. Great, gasping sobs that shake my whole body. My shoulders drop and rise with the force of them. I put my face in my hands, hiding from the shame I feel. I didn’t see it either. I thought I had -- a little bit, but I didn’t think it was _that bad_ . That was the problem, wasn’t it? I just _didn’t think_.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” All I can do is cry out apologies. One of my hands is tugged from my face, held tight in Minho’s grip. He squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

 

We sit there for a long time.

 

* * *

 

I only eat dinner that day because Minho makes me. I can hardly stomach it with the memory of Newt’s bloodied flesh and exposed tissue in my head. The residue feeling of slick blood coating my fingers made me scrub at them madly for minutes until the Runner made me stop.

 

The food doesn’t sit well, but I get it down and that’s all that matters.

 

Jeff looks up when I enter the Medhut, face drawn and tired. Newt’s leg is straight and elevated by a sling that connects to the ceiling, likely one of Gally’s ideas. It’s genius, really. The leg is supported by stacks of blankets and fabric to soften the strain. I nod to Jeff as I make my way over to Newt, not trusting myself to speak. My throat still hurts from crying and my eyes are probably swollen and red. There’s no hiding what I’d been doing, but no one would dare comment about it now.

 

There’s a bucket of water beside the bed and a damp cloth on Newt’s forehead. Since we cut him out of his clothes (aside from his underwear), we covered as much of him as we could with one of the nicer blankets. I drag my stool over to the side and sit myself down, planning on watching over him for any sign of change. He’ll need to be monitored closely around the clock for a few weeks. Despite being unconscious he still looks exhausted, with pinched eyebrows and deep purple bags under his eyes. I brush a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the color lackluster and more brown than the usual golden. He looks like a faded photo of himself.

 

“Please wake up soon,” I whisper, bending low over him to hide my face. My forehead brushes his chest and I take solace in the subtle movements of his lungs expanding and contracting. The sooner he wakes the sooner we can give him painkillers and fluids and assess what state he’s in. The sooner he wakes the sooner we’ll know if he’s going to be okay.

 

“Eddie,” Jeff calls quietly, “I’m heading in for the night. Are you sure you want to stay here?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“...okay. Try to sleep, yeah?” he murmurs, slipping out of the Medhut.

 

I stare at Newt’s slack features for a few more moments before getting up. I have a plan in mind. The stool I was sitting on is moved off to the side. With a grunt, I start pushing the other medbed over until it’s pressed against Newt’s, closest to his uninjured left side; making sure not to bump it and disturb him. He doesn’t stir despite the noise, but at least his breathing is normal and his heartbeat was still regular last time we checked -- which I should do again, just in case. I clamor on top of the empty medbed, laying down on my side and reaching out to grasp his wrist. I press my fingers to the pulse there, satisfied when I find it still as steady as before. It feels like a hummingbird within his skin, but for now that’s what his _normal_ is.

 

“I know you’re asleep,” I whisper softly into the darkening air, keeping ahold of his wrist. “But I want you to know that I’m not gonna leave you. Not ever, Newt. So please...you can’t leave _me_.”

 

I don’t get a response, but I’m not expecting one. The blonde just breathes, same as before, waxy in the brightening moonlight. I slip my hand from his wrist and lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. Crickets and candlelight, the atmosphere is familiar -- all I’ve ever known for night time. But I’ve never slept in the Medhut before. The shadows are different here.

 

I’ve never liked the dark, even after all this time it still unsettles me. Pitch black, possibly holding dangerous unknowns within...it scares me. Turning my head, I glance at Newt again, constantly drawn to the boy beside me. He brings comfort, even being unconscious. I check the cloth on his forehead. It’s almost dry. Shifting, I hop out of my bed and make my way around to the other side of his, where the bucket is. Grabbing the rag, I dip it into the water then wring it out, the excess liquid trickling back into the bucket.

 

I’m exhausted. I _want_ to sleep. My eyelids droop with invisible weight. But I can’t, not yet. I put the freshly moistened rag on Newt’s forehead and trail a thumb across his bruised cheek. Despite my desire for sleep, I feel like I need to _do_ more. What if something happens while I’m sleeping? What if he dies?

 

Shifting on my feet, I make my way around to the other side to get back into my claimed medbed. It’s not the softest of things, made of boards and wicker and cushioned with sheets stuffed with straw and rags. But it’s the best we have that isn’t a _hammock_ , which wouldn’t be ideal for a person in Newt’s situation.

 

Ugh. I rub at my eyes, feeling sleepier by the second. Today had been stressful -- more stressful than anything I’ve been through, even with Alfred. Operating on someone who’d been able to _feel_ it for part of the procedure? I’ll have nightmares about the sounds that came out of Newt’s mouth for months.

 

I grab his right hand with my left, interlacing our fingers. His grip is limp, obviously, but the weight of it is reassuring. Sleep will not come easy, even if I feel on the brink of it.

 

* * *

 

_EDDIE._

 

The voice in my head wakes me. The sky is still dark and the abruptness of it makes me startle and almost topple from my bed. I glance around, suspicious, but no one is there. A part of me already knows the voice doesn’t belong to any of the Gladers, so I don’t know who I’m expecting to see.

 

Where did it come from? Why did it wake--

 

 _Newt!_ I turn, frantic. His hand lays limp on my side of the joined medbeds. He seems...still. I lean over him worriedly, feeling for the pulse in his neck. It’s still there, if a little weak. But...but...is he...oh. _OH._ Wary of his injuries, I toss a leg over his torso, straddling him but keeping my weight off.

 

He’s not breathing.

 

 _CPR_ , I think, _that’s what I need to do_. Chest compressions. How many? I can’t -- I don’t remember. Did I ever know? Am I even in the right position? There’s no time to figure it out or second-guess myself. I don’t have the answers so I’ll just have to do my best.

 

Twenty or so compressions later, I put a hand to Newt’s forehead, tilt his chin, and press my mouth against his. One breath. Two breaths. I lean back up and start compressions again. Sweat beads at my temple. I can feel the panic creeping in, cold chills spearing down my spine. For a brief moment I consider calling for help, screaming my head off until Jeff and Clint or someone, _anyone_ comes. But what could they do to help?

 

I press my mouth to Newt’s again. Another breath. Another--

 

Newt jerks beneath me. I reel back a few inches, hovering over him. His eyes crack open and he takes in a deep breath before exhaling a groan. Familiar chocolate eyes are dull, hazy with pain and trauma. Newt blinks once, twice, _three_ times before focusing on me.

 

“...E’ie,” he croaks, some twisted version of my name. “‘m I dreamin’?”

 

“No,” as his breath returns my own catches, I’m so overwhelmed with relief. “No, Newt, you’re not dreaming, you’re so _awake!_ ”

 

The blonde opens his mouth again, but all that escapes is a pained noise. “Ow…”

 

“Oh,” He’s probably in pain, isn’t he? Scrambling, I get off him, making sure not to brush any of his injuries. I dash over to Clint’s desk, where a pot of water remains, untouched. It’s here specifically for when Newt wakes up — which, thankfully, is now. Grabbing the cup beside the pot, I fill it with clean water before returning to Newt’s side, sitting precariously off the side of his bed. Cradling his head, I hold the cup to his lips and help him sip at the liquid. A little of it spills down his chin so I wipe it away with my sleeve.

 

“Here you go,” I murmur, making sure he downs at least half the cup. “I’ve got a roll of bread here I want you to eat before I give you these painkillers, alright? I know you’re probably hurting, but if you take these on an empty stomach they might make you feel really sick.”

 

Newt just watches me, silent. I can’t tell if he’s even fully aware of everything that’s happening. He’s probably delirious with pain -- and suffering from a concussion, if only a minor one. It’s still a relief to see his eyes open and him attempting to be somewhat verbal.

 

I grab the bread from the bedside counter, tearing off a small piece. “Newt, can you understand what I’m saying? I need you to open your mouth and eat this, okay?” I press the piece to his mouth.

 

The blonde parts his lips robotically, more instinct and habit than anything else. I run a hand through his sweaty hair as he chews, not even trying to hide the elation from my expression. God, I’m so fucking happy he woke up, even if I still feel jittery from the whole _not breathing_ fiasco. Christ, I hadn’t allowed myself to panic in the moment, but I’m feeling the aftereffects now. My fingers tremble, but I press another piece of bread to Newt’s chapped lips. Then another and another and another. I repeat it until half the bread is gone, and then I can’t ignore the mounting pain on Newt’s face and the wincing.

 

The painkillers are on the bedside table as well, still in the bottle they came in. I unscrew the top, tipping out two of the oblong, white pills. Two for now seems good. Without proper dosage labels it’s all I’m willing to risk.

 

“Open up,” I instruct gently, slipping the two pills onto Newt’s tongue. His nose scrunches up in distaste. I chuckle a little at the expression and bring the cup back up to his lips, urging him to finish up the remaining liquid. He gulps it down greedily, washing the pills down his throat. “There we go.”

 

I feed him the other half of the bread.

 

“Eddie,” he slurs, after I wipe my lap of crumbs, “Are ya sure ‘m no’ bloody dreamin’?”

 

“Yes, Newt. I’m sure.” I dab at his face with the cloth that was previously on his forehead, swiping new beads of sweat away. “I promise you’re not dreaming.”

 

“Oh.” he mulls this over, face adorably serious despite the woozy look in his eyes. He’s got to be feeling the effects of the painkillers by now, with how his words sound. “Am I dead then?”

 

I freeze, rag pressed gently against his cheek. His eyes are dark, meeting mine with surprising accuracy. There’s a lump in my throat that I have to swallow past before speaking.

 

“No, Newt.” I reply, offering a weak smile, “You’re very much alive.”

 

“Oh.” he takes this as easily as he did the ‘not dreaming’ confirmation, smiling drunkenly. “I thou’ you were an angel.”

 

“Yeah?” I laugh quietly, still feeling a little tense. His question had been more than a little unsettling. Guess he’s still too out of it to realize exactly what’s going on or to remember his actions and the ramifications of them. “Sorry to disappoint, then.”

 

“No,” Newt’s eyes find my own again, captivating me. His dirty blonde brows furrow a little, “No. N’ wasn’t d’spoin’in...it waaas brillian’!” he exclaims.

 

“You are _so_ high.” I pick up the bottle of painkillers, squinting at the unhelpful label. These things must be stronger than I thought. We haven’t had to use them before, so I don’t have any prior experience concerning their effects. I don’t know why I know what it _means_ to be high.

 

“Mm.” he hums in agreement, a dopey look on his face. It’s likely he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing with. “Bri’lantant…”

 

“That’s not even a word, Newt.”

 

“Yeah.” he nods, it’s weird to see him so complacent and _loose_. “Coul’nt...coul _d_ n’t think. M’ tongue feels ‘uzzy. C’n’t feel m’ body.” he holds up his hand, wiggling his fingers in front of his eyes. He looks flabbergasted by the fact that they’re moving.

 

“Yeah, that’d be the drugs, ya shank.” Rolling my eyes, I get up to refill the cup of water. It’d be best to get as much into him as possible to keep him hydrated -- those drugs are probably gonna knock him out for a while. “Don’t try to move around, you’re not...you’re not _well_.”

 

It’s quiet for a moment, Newt trying to make sense of my words through the drug-induced haze. The air is filled with the sounds of our breathing and the usual cacophony of insects. The cicadas are particularly loud tonight.

 

“Eddie, Eddie,” Newt calls out, sounding dazed. “M’ leg ‘s bloody floatin’.”

 

“ _Oh boy_ ….gimme a moment,” I reply over my shoulder, making sure not to be too loud. It’s still night time, after all. A few seconds later I’m back at his side, carefully perched in the same spot on his bed. His left hand flails and smacks my leg, looking startled by my reappearance. “Drink this.”

 

He does. It spills a little more than the last time because he seems to forget how to close his lips halfway through. Again, I mop up the water from his chin and neck with my sleeve. He giggles hoarsely, a sound that I’ve never really heard before -- even if it’s mangled by his abused throat.

 

“Eddie,” he mumbles, eyelids fluttering. Even being close to falling back asleep, there’s still a look of intent in his dark gaze. It’s a little out of place with his dopey attitude. “Eddie, di’ya kiss me?”

 

Ah. _Ah._ I didn’t realize he’d been aware of that -- I assumed he’d been unconscious during my resuscitation efforts. There’s no reason to be awkward about it though, it’d been a legitimate medical procedure….or as legitimate as it gets here in the Glade.

 

“It was CPR, Newt.” Against my will, I feel heat burst across my cheeks. It wasn’t a kiss. I hadn’t even been thinking of it like that. A kiss requires intent, _that_ had been something else entirely. Honestly. “Not a kiss, not — not really. Though I _guess_ it could be called the ‘kiss of life’, if you wanna be technical, _ha_. I think I heard that somewhere -- or, ya know, it’s just one of those weird knowledge things. But that -- that’s not the point. The point _is_ , it wasn’t a kiss. No way.”

 

Smooth, Eddie. Real smooth. At times like these I hate being a nervous rambler.

 

“‘M first kiss, with ‘n angel.” Newt sighs out, loopy and not paying attention to the word vomit I just let out. His eyes close, eyelashes brushing his cheekbones. I’ve never noticed how long they are, or the way they’re a bit darker than his hair -- yet glint with red tones in the candlelight.

 

“It wasn’t--” I pause. He’s asleep, chest rising a falling smoothly, shadows sharpening his jawline. I realize I’m staring and turn away. Swallowing, I place a hand on my lips, “It wasn’t a kiss.”

 

I don’t even remember what his lips had felt like. Not that I want to. Do I? No….I don’t. Right?

 

My hand drops from my mouth, palm moving to press against my chest to feel my heartbeat. It feels like the organ is trying to burst out of my ribcage. _He’s high, he didn’t know what he was saying._ I’m certainly no angel.

 

* * *

 

The next time I wake, it’s to Clint shaking my shoulder. The sun is up over the Maze wall already but not too high in the sky. I sit up, scrubbing the sleep from my eyes and murmuring a thank you to the Keeper.

 

“Get some food, I’ll take over the watch.” he says, but I can hear the subtle order behind his light tone. Grumbling, I roll out of my commandeered medbed, stretching out my spine and arms when I get to my feet. Newt is still pale and sick-looking, but his chest is moving and he’s sleeping -- face slack and free of stress for once. He actually looks his age. Young.

 

“I hear ya.” I grumble, reluctantly parting from Newt’s side. My shoulder twinges from sleeping on it wrong. “It’s not too late?”

 

“For breakfast? Nah,” Clint shakes his head. “With...this whole thing...Fry and them are okay with providing us meals whenever during the day. They realize the routine is gonna be irregular while we’re watching over Newt.”

 

“Oh, good that.” Food sounds nice right now. I hope I can keep it down. “Is Minho--?”

 

“Running.” the Keeper interrupts, predicting my question. “He seemed ‘specially determined to get out there today.”

 

Glancing at Newt, I think I understand the root of Minho’s determination. Finding an exit would mean a lot to Newt and his piece of mind. He’d really scared us. With the Runners out, it seems like business is going on as usual. I don’t know what I’d expected, the routine hadn’t halted when Alfred had passed away, so why would it be any different when it was Newt -- and _he’s_ still alive, too. We just keep moving. That way we don’t sink into despair. Like Newt had.

 

“Ah, okay.” I’d wanted to at least say good morning to him, or update him on Newt. To Clint, I gave a quick rundown, “Watch his breathing. He stopped last night and I’m lucky I got it back under control. Hopefully it won’t happen again, but you can never be too sure.”

 

If Clint is worried about what had transpired, he doesn’t show it. Just gives me a resolute nod. “I’ll watch him Eddie, I promise. Now go get something to eat before you fall over. No one’s in the Homestead now, so it’ll be quiet.”

 

Relieved, I give him a small grin. “Thanks, Clint.”

 

He waves it off, slumping down into the stool at his desk. “Get outta here already!”

 

On my way out I pass Jeff, who gives me a nod and pats my shoulder firmly. There isn’t much to say, so I continue on to the Homestead. The fresh air does me good, clearing the last of the sleep-fog from my brain. My stomach rumbles, not happy with the lack of food -- dinner last night hadn’t been very filling. Food hasn’t been on my mind, not when Newt requires my full attention.

 

“Hey, Doc,” Wyck greets me when I enter the all but _empty_ Homestead (everyone’s already hard at work), brushing his straw-blonde hair from his eyes. “Ready to eat?”

 

“Yeah,” I say, following him when he gestures at me and walks towards the kitchen. I’ve only been back here a few times, the longest during my first week in the Glade -- test week. It doesn’t look too different to my knowledge; the room shaped like a rectangle with counters lining the long back wall and a wood stove in the left corner, a stack of wood right across from it. There’s baskets of herbs and vegetables against the wall space beside the entryway, a few on the counters, and a rack of pots and meat hanging in various places from the ceiling. It smells heavily of smoke and greens. Open windows line the back wall, in the empty space between the counters and the ceiling, letting smoke waft out.

 

Frypan is at the wood stove. It’s a shoddy contraption but at least it gets the job done. There’s a pot bubbling on it, the full contents just out of sight. Jim and Rob are both cutting up vegetables at the counters, knives thudding against the thick wood. They’re much more careful about using the blades than the Slicers are, I don’t see any of the Cooks _half_ as much in the Medhut as I do Winston and Sven.

 

“Here ya are!” Wyck says, moving to the counter where there’s a plate covered by a pot lid. He takes the lid off and picks up the plate to hand over. I take it from him with a quiet thank you, inspecting the food -- potato wedges, bacon, eggs and bread. There’s a bit more than there usually is, which must be them trying to look out for me. I’m grateful.

 

“You better eat all of it, Eddie.” Frypan doesn’t turn from the stove, merely flicks his gaze in my direction and gives me a stern look. “I mean it.”

 

“I get it.” I chuckle, dipping my chin in a slight nod. Frypan can be such a mama bear. “I will, promise!”

 

Fry makes a huffing sound, grin on his lips as he turns away. I bite at my bottom lip, smiling softly and leaving the kitchen with a farewell nod to Wyck. The sitting area is still empty and I sit with relief. I’m not in the mood to make conversation with any curious Gladers, the Cooks aside.

 

I eat, but the food is practically tasteless. My mind is too focused on planning how to conduct Newt’s recovery and what supplies we’ll need from the Box. The months ahead already have me stressed, not that I’ll ever blame Newt for it. _Never_. I’ll gladly take on any stress or problem for him. While I was too late to stop this from happening, there is nothing I won’t do to make sure it never happens again. Newt deserves to be happy — I just need to make him believe that.

 

Now...exactly _how_ to go about doing that I still haven’t figured out.

 

My fork moves to my mouth mechanically as I stare at the wall, deep in thought. The sound of the utensil scraping the plate makes me shake my head and return to reality. I want to see Newt again, right away. I don’t like being away from him while he’s in such a fragile state. He could wake up at any moment, and I want to be there. Standing, I stuff the last piece of bread into my mouth and make my way over to the dish drop-off.

 

“Thanks for the food!” I yell in the direction of the kitchen, striding out of the Homestead after I hear a few noises of acknowledgement in reply.

 

Clint and Jeff glance up as I enter the Medhut, both of them look unimpressed and unsurprised to see me back so quickly.

 

“You don’t understand the meaning of _take a break_ , do you?” Clint mutters, rolling his eyes up to ceiling. Jeff just grunts and turns back to the notebook on his desk. I’m pretty sure he’s marking down the supplies we’d used on Newt to see what we’ll need replaced. That reminds me…

 

“Uh, no?” I answer, even though the Keeper’s question was rhetorical. I pull out Newt’s journal from the cabinet and drop it onto my desk. My stool is still over by Newt’s bed, so I shuffle over to him to retrieve it. He’s still sound asleep and looks the same as he did last night. I’m not sure why I expect him to have visibly improved, as it’s barely been a day since he’d been brought back into the Glade. It’ll be awhile before he starts to look healthier.

 

I drag my stool back over to my desk and sit down, immediately seeking out the blonde’s journal. There are only nine entries so far, all from the monthly physicals. He’s never been sick or come to me for some other medical issue, at least, nothing serious enough to warrant a note in his journal. Not like the Slicers, for instance, who have a plethora of injury notes between the two of them.

 

This incident, however, requires a very lengthy entry, especially since the injuries will have long-term effects. Of that, I have no doubt. That injury is beyond me, the only way he can walk away from this with little to no problems is if we get an actual doctor and surgeon here. But that’s not possible. There’s just Clint, Jeff and I. We’re just kids! Clint, the oldest looking of us three, can’t possibly be older than sixteen, if even that.

 

 _ENTRY 10_. I write it at the top left of the next blank page in big, bold letters. The date of the incident goes in the opposite corner. _Month fourteen, day five, mid-morning._ As painful as it is to remember it all, I bring up every detail I can to inscribe into the journal. I need to be as thorough as possible just in case anything comes up in the future. Every fracture, every scrape and bruise, the stitches and the cauterizing -- I put it all down, as well as the amount of painkillers he’s taken so far. I know with injuries as bad as his, using the drugs would be unavoidable because of how severe his pain will be. We just have to watch carefully to make sure he doesn’t develop a dependency on them. That’s the last thing he needs right now.

 

I make a note about last night, when his breathing stopped and I had to use CPR. As I write out the acronym, my face flushes. _Stupid_ , I shake my head. _Don’t think about it_. I would have been perfectly fine if Newt hadn’t brought up the word _kiss_. Now it’s all I can think about, which is grossly inappropriate on account of the whole ‘he was dying’ thing. I’m the medical professional in the Glade, no matter _how_ lacking my knowledge is, so I have to cross a lot of boundaries while remaining serious.

 

So there’s no way it was a kiss. Absolutely no way. Therefore, there is no reason for me to _keep thinking about it the way I am._ I sigh loudly, pressing my forehead to the journal and groaning.

 

“Alright there, Eddie?” Clint calls, sounding tentatively amused. It’s been so stressful lately he probably can’t tell if my mood is out of exasperation or actual exhaustion.

 

“Yes.” I grumble against the paper, not moving my head up to face him because my cheeks still feel heated. “It’s nothin’.”

 

“If you say so…” he drawls, now definitely amused.

 

I sit back up once my racing heart settles, expression disgruntled. The entry is complete for now, that’s what matters. I push away from the stool, leaving the journal and pencil on my desk. Looking at Newt makes me feel calmer, but it also adds on stress like nobody’s business.

 

I feel guilty.

 

As a group, we’d all fallen into a routine of monotony, repeating the same schedule over and over. It lead us to assume everything would just continue to be the same. So when Newt showed signs of _change_ we...didn’t pay as much attention as we should have. We went about our day as we always did, thinking he’d fall back in line eventually.

 

We may be kids, but we still should have paid more attention. I will forever blame myself for not _knowing_. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d died, especially since this whole thing could have been prevented had we just sat down and tried to _help_ him.

 

I brush a lock of hair from his forehead, trailing my fingertips down the side of his face to curve around his jaw. He’s losing more baby fat every month. I hope he wakes again soon.

 

* * *

 

Newt doesn’t actually awaken until after lunch. His face scrunches up and adds lines to his forehead and between his brows. I see his body tense before he lets out a low moan and his eyes open. He coughs pitifully, head shifting as he gazes around.

 

“Hey there,” I murmur, at his side in an instant and sitting on his bed. Newt looks a lot more _here_ , mentally. His expression is pinched in discomfort but he’s no longer dazed. “How are you doing?”

 

“...hurts.” he mutters, dodging eye contact. His hands curl into fists and relax, before repeating the motion.

 

“Yeah,” I hand him a glass of water. “Sorry about that, but I can’t give you anymore pain meds until get some food into you.”

 

Newt gulps down the offered liquid, not spilling any this time even though his hand trembles. I take the cup back from him when he’s done. We sit in silence for a beat. I can _feel_ the awkwardness in the air and Newt still hasn’t looked directly at me yet. I don’t think he’s embarrassed -- at least, not about the whole CPR thing, I highly doubt he even remembers that -- rather, he must be feeling...I can’t even put it into words. He’d tried to kill himself and hadn’t succeeded. _Thank god_. But now he’s left with the aftermath.

 

There’s a lot of things I could say or ask, like _how could you?_ Or _what made you think that was the answer?_ But those questions sound accusatory and the last thing I want is to make him feel like what he did was _troublesome_ or make him feel belittled.

 

I glance back at Jeff and Clint, both of which are looking decidedly interested in the conversation and simultaneously awkward. There’s an elephant in the room that the two boys don’t know how to kindly approach. Neither do I, but they seem to feel like I’m the best bet at comforting Newt, because they don’t make a move to intercede.

 

“I’m gonna just, uh, get a plate of food together.” Clint declares, standing abruptly. Jeff is quick to follow and the two leave the hut as quickly as they can without making it seem like they’re running away.

 

Newt barely looks at them, resolutely staring at the wall with a tick in his jaw. I’m certain he’s in pain. His whole body is probably throbbing like a big bruise.

 

“Newt.” My voice breaks. I clear my throat. “ _Newt_.”

 

His lips tremble, right shoulder bobbing up and down. “ _What_ , Eddie.” his voice is sharp and cracking.

 

“We’ve elevated your leg, so try not to move it. It’s in pretty bad shape. Everything else is relatively ok. We’ve got a long road ahead but, together….” I reach out a place a hand over his clenched fist, feeling him flinch.

 

Newt’s exhale is more like a sob and he’s still refusing to look at me, but his hand relaxes beneath mine and I weave our fingers together. His palm is clammy and his skin is cool to the touch. Yet he holds my hand just as tightly as I hold his, white knuckled and trembling.

 

“I’m gonna be with you every step of the way.” I breathe, just loud enough for him to hear. Pulling the words from my mind and putting them into the air is both terrifying and anxiety-inducing, but I do it for him. I feel like whatever I say could never be meaningful enough to get the depth of my determination across. “However long it takes...wherever we end up -- you’re stuck with me.”

 

“Why?” Newt croaks, face set in stone despite the tears on his waterline. “Why would you--”

 

“I know…” I interrupt before he can start some self-deprecating monologue. “That you’ve always felt hollow. We all do, yeah, but maybe you had it worse. I was a real shitty friend for not noticin’ how much it affected you.”

 

“You di--”

 

“Lemme -- Let me finish,” my voice wobbles, “Please.”

 

Newt purses his lips, eyes flicking my way for a moment. He doesn’t speak again.

 

“This isn’t about me, I know. I’m just blamin’ myself, like I usually do.” I laugh, a forced, weak sound. “But you know, I keep thinking about what I could’a done to help you because you mean so much to me. To me...you are…”

 

Newt finally turns his head in my direction, eyes filled with pain but pushing through to focus on my words. It’s like being struck by lightning, seeing the full brunt of him and feeling the weight of his complete attention. I clear my throat, suddenly feeling a bit nervous for an entirely different reason.

 

“You are…..your hammock is right next to mine, yeah? So you -- you’re one of the first things I see in the morning and one of the last things I see at night. I look at you and think _there’s someone I can trust_. I look at you and think _there’s someone who cares_. Because you always do. You care about everyone but never yourself -- and I just, I _want you to_. I want you to care about yourself! I want you to be happy! I can’t imagine a life in the Glade without you, Newt. I know you miss that person you were _before_. But the person you are _now_? I like him.”

 

Newt swallows visibly, his eyes boring into my own.

 

“I like you, Newt.” I squeeze his hand. “I like you a whole lot and even if it’s selfish I -- I don’t want to lose you. Not like that, not _ever._ ”

 

I can’t stop the tears the spill over my cheekbones or the hitching breathes that turn into quiet sobs. With my free hand I wipe at the tears, tasting salt on my tongue when I inhale through my mouth. My nose feels stuffy. I try to reign it in, hating to expose myself like this in front of another -- or do the _ugly cry_. In front of Newt. In front of anyone really, but for some reason it feels a million times more embarrassing because it’s _Newt._

 

“Okay.”

 

Sniffing, I stop rubbing at my eyes and peer at him with a reddened gaze. He’s watching me, soft despite the underlying pain. Something in his expression has changed.

 

“I won’t do that again.” he whispers. “I don’t -- I’m not _good_  Eddie. I don’t feel great and I’m not talking about the physical stuff. I got low. I let it get to my head. It doesn’t mean I...I don’t care about you or any of the others. I like you too, Eddie. I like you _so bloody much_ ,” his voice catches, his unoccupied hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose as he lets out a tense laugh. “But I’m gonna have bad days.”

 

“That’s alright.” We all have bad days, some worse than others. Newt is on another level, maybe, but that doesn’t mean he can’t get _better_. “I don’t expect it to be like flipping a switch.”

 

“Good. ‘Cause it’s not gonna be like that at all, no matter how much I wish it was.” he says, bitter. His fingers twitch against mine. I squeeze gently, making him drop the tense expression on his face. He looks at our joined hands with what looks like desperation -- before it drops into something more soft and neutral.

 

“Doesn’t matter.” I shake my head. “However long it takes, I’m telling you _I’ll be there_.”

 

The blonde bites his lip, looking troubled. “...Eddie…”

 

“No,” I cut him off. “I mean it, you’re stuck with me like -- like Doug on Fry’s cakes.”

 

Newt presses his lips together but that doesn’t stop the upward tilt to the corners of his mouth. A smile. _Victory_. He rolls his eyes, trying and failing to keep a serious countenance.

 

“Woe is me,” he jokes, tone dry.

 

“Oh, buddy,” I raise my brows, staring at him with a _look what you did now_ expression as I wipe my nose with my sleeve. “I’m gonna be the _definition_ of a clingy girlfriend. _Woe is you._ ”

 

That gets a full laugh from him -- though it tapers off into a pained groan. It still makes preen to see that a little bit of light is making its way back into his eyes. He looked so empty and _dead_ when he’d first woken up. Now he’s...not _better_ , not yet -- but _trying._  Oh god, I hope he’s trying.

 

“Clingy girlfriend…” he murmurs, wincing a little and chuckling. “What a thought.”

 

“Scary, right?” I hum, clearing my throat and straightening my posture now that I’ve stopped crying.

 

“No,” Newt exclaims, half-mocking with an exaggerated _of course not_ tone. “You’d make _such_ a good girlfriend, Eddie. You’re a real housewife type, ain’t ya?”

 

I scrunch my nose in distaste and pinch his cheek, relishing that he can’t escape.

 

Jeff and Clint return right then, blinking at us curiously. It’s a lot less tense than when they left. Striding forward with the plate of food, Clint nods in greeting to Newt as he sets it down on the bedside table.

 

“Hey there, shuckface.” he greets, light and airy. “Frypan wants me to inform you that if you don’t eat everything here that he’s so _lovingly_ prepared then he’s gonna come in here himself and force feed you.”

 

Newt’s grin is small but _there_ , even if it turns into a grimace a few moments later. We really need to speed this up so he can take the painkillers.

 

“Tell him thanks,” the blonde says, looking grateful. “I know I--”

 

“Shut up and eat, man.” Clint shakes his head. “We’re all glad you’re up and around. You really scared us there.”

 

“I...thanks.” Newt’s lips press together tightly until they’re pale and bloodless. His expression is equal parts scrutinizing and wondering, like he can’t believe how happy everyone is that he’s _here_ and he’s trying to find out _why._

 

“Yeah, just don’t do it again, ya hear?” Clint points a mildly threatening finger in Newt’s direction. I’m pretty sure only Minho and I (and maybe Alby and Nick, because I don’t doubt they’d made Minho tell them) knew how Newt had gotten like this. While we in the Glade didn’t know too much about the Maze, most of us _did_ know that there were levels and uneven parts of ground because Runners had fallen and injured themselves before. No one will think for a second that he’d climbed up the vines, not after Alfred. Everyone probably assumes he’d just... _fallen_ off a ledge. _Jumped_? No way. But looking at Clint and even _Jeff’s_ face, I wonder if perhaps they suspect the truth.

 

“I hear you.” Newt responds quietly. I hope it’s sincere.

 

“Good that.” the Keeper nods. He hovers for a moment before turning on his heel and going back over to his desk.

 

Newt shifts, discomfort clear on his face.

 

“Alright, time to eat then,” I urge, slipping my hand from his to pick up the plate and hold it out to him. Newt stares at the offered plate and then at my face.

 

“Or…” he hedges, “You could be a good girlfriend and feed me?”

 

Jeff splutters in the background, but I ignore his guffaws and narrow my eyes at Newt. He’s clearly teasing, but I’m actually considering doing just that. I can see from here that his hands are trembling and he’s probably still exhausted, plus, he’s not exactly leaning up at a good angle to eat.

 

“Alright.” I say, once again ignoring the new wave of giggles behind me. “But let’s sit you up a bit.”

 

Putting the plate back on the bedside table, I get up to retrieve the pseudo pillows (fabric stuffed with more fabric...we’re tight on towels and extra clothes now but everyone had agreed it was for the best since Newt needed it to recover) and return to Newt’s side to help prop him up a little. It’s not much, but at least his head is a little more elevated.

 

“Alright then,” I fret, running a hand through his hair and brushing invisible dirt from his chest and pulling the blanket back up under his chin. “All good.”

 

Newt starts a little at the feel of my hand on his bare skin. He glances down, sudden realization crossing his face. “Am I -- am I bloody _starkers_!?”

 

“I dunno what that means,” I say, adopting a clinical tone of voice, “But if it is what I think -- then yes, aside from your underwear you’re a bit...naked. We had to cut your clothes off to get to the injuries without disturbing them.”

 

“Christ.” he murmurs, looking down before glancing back up at me. There’s a hot flush on his cheeks, making him look almost ill with how pale he is. “You didn’t--”

 

Clint clears his throat. “Your virtue is safe, Newt. You don’t have to worry.”

 

“Bugger off.” Newt hisses. His red cheeks begin to fade back to their normal pallid tone, or rather, the sickly shade of _white_ his skin has taken to after the blood-loss and pain.

 

“ _Anyway_ ,” I move the plate from the table to the my lap. Picking up the fork, I skewer a piece of what looks like sausage before holding it out expectantly. “Less talk-y more eat-y, I’m bein’ a good girlfriend here and everything.”

 

Newt does, in fact, cease talking and opens his mouth to accept the offered food. He continues quite obediently and without issue, only shooting Jeff a dirty look once when the dark-skinned boy snickers. Steadily, we make our way through the whole plate until he’d eaten just about all of it.

 

“Now…” I grab the bottle of painkillers from where I’d left it on the side table, twisting the cap off. “I’m gonna give you one for right now...I gave you two last night but I feel like that was too much. You were completely loopy.”

 

“Last night?” he says, face screwing up in confusion. “I was awake last night?”

 

“Open up,” I say quickly, pressing the pill to his mouth. My fingertips brush his lips and for a split second I think I feel his tongue flick against them. My heart thuds heavily in my chest and my throat seems to close in on itself. Unable to speak, I pass him the cup of water so he can wash the pill down easily. This isn’t helping me forget the weird thoughts I keep having about last night.

 

“Was I?” Newt says once he’s swallowed and handed the cup back. “Awake, I mean? I don’t remember it…”

 

“Yes. For a little. You, uh, stopped breathing.” I don’t know what expression I have on my face, but Newt looks more than a little bewildered and sorrowful.

 

“I’m -- I’m sorry.” he says, stilted.

 

“It’s over. I mean, you’re breathing now. Just...scared me.” I shrug, picking at the edge of the bed with a finger, eyes avoiding his own. “Whatever, I’m glad you’re okay. Although--”

 

“What?” Newt frowns, looking suspicious when a grin forms on my face. “What is it? Eddie?”

 

“You did think I was an angel. That was pretty funny.” I smirk, remembering his awed, hazy gaze and slurred words.

 

“No.” he mutters, face going slack with surprise. “ _No_.”

 

“Oh, yes.” I laugh, “I gotta say, it’s quite the compliment to be compared to an angel, Newt.”

 

“Oh, shut up!” he groans, head sinking into his shoulders. “I was drugged, you can’t hold that against me!”

 

“Oh, but it was so _lovely!_ You called me an angel twice! They do say that drunk words are sober thoughts...”

 

“Stop!” he wails, hands covering his face while Clint and Jeff laugh raucously. I grin triumphantly when I see how expressive he’s become again, snapping at the other two med-jacks and rolling his eyes. It’s good to see him like this.

 

Delighted, I once again find myself running my hand through his hair. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated by it, especially now, when it’s going on two days unwashed and oily with sweat. But I can’t stop myself. I catch Newt’s gaze. Suddenly I realize _oh,_ _he’s awake_ , and I’m touching his hair like I’ve only done while he’d been sleeping. I flush red and snatch my wandering appendage back, hiding both my hands in my lap.

 

Newt just watches me for a moment, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue before leveling me with a look that’s...content. I feel something hot in my gut. My fingers twitch, wanting to reach back up and tangle in his hair.

 

“...Eddie.” he says softly, expression contemplative.

 

“Yeah?” I squeak.

 

“I need to use the bathroom.”

 

I glance at his leg suspended in the air, then his face. There’s no way he’s making it to the bathroom, not even if we help him. It’s too soon to risk moving him. Crap, this could be a problem. “Uh. Okay. Alright. We got this.”

 

Jeff appears at my side, an empty tin bucket in his hand. “Good luck.” he says, cheerily, pushing it into my hands before ducking out of the Medhut. I realize that Clint is also gone. They’ve left to give Newt privacy, most likely, but also left me here to be the one to help. Jerks.

 

“Right.” I say, looking down at the item in my hands. “Bucket.”

 

I look back up at Newt, smiling awkwardly. He’s wide-eyed and violently shaking his head _no._

 

“No way.” he denies, “Absolutely not. I’m not -- ”

 

“Hey man, if you gotta go…” I shrug. Might as well get it over with and get used to it, as it’ll probably happen at least once or twice a day until he’s a little healthier. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

 

“No, Eddie.” his cheeks burn and he continues to shake his head in vehemence. “I can’t, not in front of…”

 

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Newt. I swear I don’t care. I’m only worried about you injuring yourself again trying to do this on your own.” It’s gonna be awkward for sure, because we can’t move him while his leg is up like that. Which means…

 

I move the blanket from his form, whipping it off quickly before he can grip at it to cover his body. He yelps, hands flailing and body jerking -- but he settles quickly when the movements cause him pain.

 

“Don’t move so much.” I abdomish, putting the bucket on the bed and reaching towards his lap.

 

“STOP!” he squeals, smacking my hands away. “I can do it myself!”

 

“Ok, ok!” I hold up my hands placatingly, my own face slowly turning red. He’s embarrassed, and therefore _I_ feel it. Curse you, secondhand embarrassment.

 

“Don’t look.” he pleads needlessly, because I wasn’t planning to. His voice shakes and the last thing I see is his crimson face before I turn my gaze heavenward after positioning the bucket carefully between his legs at an angle. I hear the shift of fabric as he tugs his underwear down a little to -- nope. Don’t think about it. There’s a long pause.

 

“I can’t do it.” he heaves.

 

“What? Why?” I ask, almost peering down but catching myself at the last moment. Don’t want to see something I shouldn’t.

 

“Eddie, I can’t do it while you’re _here_ , listening.”

 

“What’s so different about hearing it when you’re in the bathroom?” It wasn’t exactly silent when you peed into the toilets.

 

“Because you’re literally _right here_!” he exclaims, indignant. His breath catches. Is he -- I don’t look down, no matter how much I want to see his expression -- is he crying? Does this mortify him _that_ much?

 

“Newt,” I soothe, “I promise, one hundred percent, that I don’t care about whatever sounds you don’t want me to hear. I’ll never bring it up, I’ll never tease you about it and I’m doing this because I’m your _friend._ I’m not gonna see you any differently because of this.”

 

“...Promise?” he asks, sounding young.

 

“I promise.”

 

He takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, if there are medical inaccuracies, it's uhhhhhh because Eddie literally just doesn't know enough. he's winging it. ALSO I HOPE U LIKE?? THE NERDS BEING CUTE?? and newt's depression isn't gonna just disappear, sorry :/ that's not how it works my dudes


	10. Unknown

It’s just as awkward as you  _ think  _ it’d be, except worse, because I’m actually experiencing it. Fortunately, we get over it pretty quickly. Or at least,  _ I _ do. Probably because it’s not  _ me _ that’s being exposed. For whatever reason, it’s  _ me  _ that Newt relies on the most. He refuses to let Clint or Jeff help him use the bathroom, or even consider going while they’re in the room. The only time we’d had a huge argument was when it was time for him to go  _ number two.  _ That was quite the experience. I guess my speech about sticking to his side and not judging him for anything really hit its mark. But there was  _ one _ issue we hadn’t tackled yet…

 

“Newt, we  _ gotta. _ ” I stand next to his bed, arms crossed and expression pleading.

 

“...I dunno.” he mutters, bottom lip jutting out. He’s  _ pouting _ , of all things, looking reluctant and mullish. 

 

“ _ Newt. _ We need to get you washed up, alright?” It’s been about five days by now, and he was due for a shower. Since that wasn’t quite possible at the moment, we needed to compromise. That meant cleaning out one of the water troughs we used for the animals and dragging it in here. Which was done, I’d supervised the sterilizing of it myself, and even filled it with water -- now I just had to convince Newt to let me help. “I’m gonna be honest here, you stink.”

 

He flushes a shade of pink, pout intensifying and gaze darting off to the side. “... _ thanks _ .”

 

“Hey,” I say, raising my brows, “I’m just tellin’ it like it is. Plus, you’ll feel much better once you’re clean. Your hands are perfectly healthy, so it’s not like  _ I’m _ gonna wash you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m just here to help you get in and out of the tub! You’re not allowed to walk anytime soon.”

 

“I get it,” Newt sighs, tilting his head back and exposing the pale column of his throat. “I just -- I’ll be  _ naked _ .”

 

“That is correct.” I state, matter-of-fact. “You kinda need to be.”

 

The blonde shifts, looking distinctly uncomfortable. I sigh, running a hand through my hair.

 

“Newt,” I begin, drawing his gaze to me, “I’m not gonna... _ peek _ or anything. I swear. If you feel uncomfortable about the nudity thing -- it’s the same as when we’re taking showers in the communal bathroom. Plus we’re both boys, so what you got ain’t anything I haven’t seen before.”

 

“I mean, I guess.” he grumbles, grimacing. “It’s just...different.”

 

“But…?” I heckle, rocking back and forth on my heels. Newt sags back against the pillow, moody but finally relenting.

 

“Fine.” He says, his desire to clean himself outweighing his embarrassment. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

Grinning, I make my way closer to remove the blanket from his reclining form. I fold it, placing it off to the side so I can bring it to the laundry room once Newt is settled in the tub. The blonde frowns, hands clenching next to his thighs. When I return to his side, I set my sights on the leg suspended in the sling. Carefully, I move the blanket supports from beneath the heavily bandaged limb. Newt doesn’t grimace, but his lips twitch. I can’t tell if he’s in pain or not -- he’d already taken a painkiller within the past hour. 

 

“I swear to god, Newt,” I say, trying my best to convey my seriousness. “I don’t want you to shuckin’ move this leg of yours even a  _ little _ , you hear me?”

 

“Loud and clear.” he sighs, still grumpy about being exposed in just his underwear.

 

I eye the ropes strung up to the ceiling, gripping them tightly with one hand as I loosen the knot with the other so I can lower the leg gradually. Newt hisses a little as the change in position after so long makes his leg tingle. 

 

“Sorry, sorry!”

 

“Stop,” Newt grunts, eyes sharp. “Stop bloody apologizing.”

 

“S--” I break off the habitual apology, smiling at him sheepishly. “Bear with me a little longer, okay?”

 

I get a nod in response, Newt only half-listening now as he stares at his legs. They’re side by side now, at the same level for the first time in five days. One leg (his left one) doesn’t looks so bad, just a few scrapes and bruises. The other is vastly different, wrapped in bandages and locked in place by wooden splints, any skin poking out is purple-red and swollen. Newt swallows heavily, eyes hooded. The reality of the damage is more apparent when you consider the appearances of the two limbs. 

 

“Okay…” I pull the little knife from my belt. There’s no way to save Newt’s underwear seeing as we can’t get it over his leg. It has to be cut off. “Do you...wanna do this?”

 

“Yes.” Newt answers immediately, taking the offered blade from me quickly. I snort a little at his eagerness, whether it be to rid himself of the cloth or to take control of this potentially mortifying situation. He slips his thumb under the waistband to tug it up. I whirl around, heart jumping to my throat. Weird.

 

“...done.” the blonde mutters reluctantly. 

 

I turn, pointedly keeping my gaze upwards and on his face. If I think about it, he’s already been showing a lot of skin -- everything aside from…. _ down there _ \-- so I shouldn’t be as nervous about this as I am. Not that  _ I _ have any right to be nervous, it’s not  _ my  _ body being exposed to another, after all. 

 

“Ready?” I ask quietly, meeting his warm eyes. He’s visibly uncomfortable but acting nonchalant about it. I take the knife from his hand when he offers it back, slipping it into my waistband where it belonged.

 

“Yeah.” he replies, stilted. Maneuvering him off the bed is a slow and tedious process, but I make sure to shove the tub as close as possible so I don’t have to help him very far. We manage to make it with minimal wincing from Newt, a feat that relieves me. He’s not very happy about being picked up though, when it comes time to lower him into the tub. I’m pretty strong and Newt is relatively slim, but he’s heavier than he looks and still about three inches taller than me. My arms quiver and I grit my teeth as I try my best to lower him as gently as possible without bumping his leg on anything. Newt twists a little in my hold to grip the edges of the tub with his hands and aid his descent. I make sure to prop up his bandaged leg on the rim of the tub to keep it out of the water. It’s not good to get casts -- or as close to a cast as we could make -- wet. So with that in mind I’d only filled the tub with a few buckets of water, so when he sat with his leg up, it only touched the top his thigh, a good few inches before the bandages started.

 

“There we go!” I exclaim, happy that we’d finally gotten him in and settled. Newt scrunched his face cutely, eyebrows furrowing and lips twitching with a faint smile. I present his bathroom box to him, so he can use his own soap. “Here, just be careful not to touch your right leg at all, okay?”

 

“Got it,” he grunts, accepting to bar of soap gratefully. “I’m surprised you’re letting me wash myself, with all the bloody hovering you’ve been doing.”

 

“Would you like me to?” I raise a single eyebrow, tone dry. “Maybe it  _ is _ too soon for you to be moving so much…”

 

“No, no,” he backpedals quickly, perhaps sensing that I’d actually do it if pushed. He knows me too well. “This is fine. I swear!”

 

“At least let me wash your hair, alright?” My fingers itch with the need to turn that greasy mop back into its usual fluffy mess. “I’ll let you wash your body, but I really don’t want you stretching yourself too much.”

 

“...fine.” he agrees, shrugging his shoulders. I notice they look a little paler than usual, I guess being out of the sun for almost a week will do that. He begins to splash water on himself and suds his hands up with the soap to scrub at his skin. I grab one of the buckets beside the tub and drop to my knees next to it, putting my elbows on the rim as I lean forward and push the bucket under a little to collect some water. Newt only pauses for a moment and I briefly see the muscles in his abdomen tensing before I flick my gaze away so I don’t get an eyeful of more skin than he’s comfortable with. 

 

Once I have water in the bucket, I shuffle on my knees closer to end of the tub with Newt’s upper half. 

 

“Lean your head forward a bit,” I murmur, lifting the bucket to tilt the water over his head after he does just that. It splashes against his skull in a gentle wave, flowing down his neck and leaving trails of droplets behind. A few drops collect in the dip of his collarbone. Which I’m not paying attention to. At all. I run my hands through his hair, grimacing at the feel of oil against my fingertips. His hair is sufficiently damp, but I still slip the bucket into the space between his hip and the tub to collect a little more water and repeat my actions.

 

The water is cloudier now, slightly milky with soap suds and grime. We don’t have shampoo, so I continue to comb my fingers through his hair before asking for the soap. Newt hands it to me without a word and I soap my hands up until I’m satisfied, then hand it right back so he can finish washing himself. With my sudsy hands, I scoot over a little more until I’m directly behind Newt, facing the back of his head. My fingers slide through his wet locks, scrubbing softly at his scalp. I can literally feel the oil being washed out of his hair, which is both gross and relieving. 

 

“Close your eyes a sec,” After refilling the bucket of water, I gently pour it over his soapy head with one hand, using the other to shake through the soaked locks to dislodge all the suds. “Mmkay, all done.”

 

Newt rubs the water from his eyes. “Thanks.”

 

“No problem.” I reply, averting my eyes and standing with the bucket in hand. Making my way over to my desk, I drop the bucket onto the surface. From behind me I hear faint splashing as Newt moves his arms. I hesitate, staring down at the pockmarked wood. Newt doesn’t need me to hover over him as he washes himself, no matter how anxious it makes me to let him out of my sight. 

 

Instead of going back to the side of the tub, I start picking up a few of the blankets he’d been sleeping with. Might as well wash them while we could. I  _ did  _ initially plan on taking the dirty sheets away to begin with.

 

“I’m gonna run these to the laundry room, are you gonna be alright?” The scrap of what used to be Newt’s underwear lays innocently on the ground next to his bed. Seeing as it’s no longer wearable, I’m wondering if it’s better off just to burn it or actually wash it and use it as scrap fabric. Something tells me no one would be very happy to use underwear as scrap fabric, no matter how washed it was.

 

Fire it is.

 

“Yeah.” Newt responds, “I think I can handle a few minutes alone, Eddie.”

 

I glance back at him to see that he’s watching me, smirking with a raised eyebrow. Punk. I roll my eyes but smile anyway. “Just making sure. Remember, don’t--”

 

“--get the cast wet, I know.” he drones, running a hand through his wet hair. “Relax.”

 

“Ok…” I murmur, casting one last glance at him before I leave the medhut and make my way to the laundry room. Anxiety hits me the second he’s out of view, but like a cooling balm a feeling of  _ i got this _ soothes me. My mystery person. I still don’t know if they exist or if I’m actually crazy, but it does help settle my nerves. That doesn’t mean I don’t book it to the laundry room as quickly as I can though…

 

I can’t help it. I’m becoming like a hover parent. Not that I’m relating myself to Newt’s parent. That would just be -- ew.  _ Ew. _ My own vehemence startles me a little. Whatever. 

 

Rob is there when I step in, already sorting through some of the laundry. He must be on duty today. We really should add in a new job -- something for cleaning. It was almost too much to do our normal jobs as well as clean the bathrooms and kitchen and do laundry. Rob doesn’t speak much, something I can appreciate. I’m not really in the mood for conversation so I’m glad it was him that I ran into. With a nod I drop off the dirty sheets in the designated ‘soiled’ pile. He offers a small smile in return before turning back to work. After grabbing the biggest pair of clean underwear I could find and a random blue shirt I bolt back outside, feet moving over the now familiar dirt path to the Medhut. 

 

“Hey, Eddie!” 

 

I stop abruptly, one hand on the entrance to the hut and the other clutching the clothing. I can see Newt inside, head tilted back and eyes closed. He’s probably done washing himself and waiting for me to get in. Looking over my shoulder, I see Henry approaching. That’s the last thing I need right now. Resigned, I turn to face him anyway. Hopefully he’s just here to talk about something medical related…. _ yeah right. _

 

“Eddie?” Henry repeats, stopping just short of me. I slide back an inch, the frame of the entranceway presses into my back. 

 

I risk a glance into the hut. Newt’s eyes are open now, dark and piercing and  _ looking right at me _ . There’s some unidentifiable emotion on his face, jaw set. I wonder if he’s worried about being seen while he’s naked and vulnerable. By anyone but me. That’s an embarrassing thought. Rewind. Forget that. Moving on.

 

“Uh, yeah?” I reply belatedly, turning my gaze back to Henry’s suave and earnest expression. 

 

“Just wondering how you’re doin’.” he says, shrugging his shoulders smoothly. Everything he does is smooth. When he smiles I feel like I’m blinded by the whiteness of his teeth. I suppose I could be envious of his pretty face and unfairly coordinated movements, but really I’m just annoyed that he’s talking to me when all I want to do is run back inside and get Newt dried off and dressed before he gets a cold or something.

 

“Fine.” One word answers are usually signs of wanting to end conversation. He should get that much, right?

 

“That’s good. You’ve been really busy lately.” Henry continues. Is it my imagination or is he getting closer? “Haven’t seen you around in the Homestead at all.”

 

“Yeah, well,” I tap my foot, fidgeting under the strain of discomfort. “Like you said. I’ve been busy.”

 

“But you’re not the only Medjack here.” he states, an undercurrent of  _ something _ in his tone. I immediately bristle, wondering exactly  _ what _ he’s suggesting here. “Maybe you could take a break once in a while, yeah? Let Clint or Jeff take over. You’ve been lookin’ a little tense.”

 

“What?” I blink. Is he serious?

 

“You should have some  _ fun _ every once in a while, Eddie! Why don’t you hang out with me sometime?” Henry leans forward a little, smile like silk. “I’m sure we could find some way to get you to relax a little.”

 

“Listen.” I speak up, my fingers tingling. The last thing I ever do is  _ confront _ . Confrontation is my enemy. Social anxiety is my master. But when it comes to this? “Henry. I have a job to do -- and more than that, Newt is my  _ friend _ . I’m not gonna ‘take a break’ from watching over him, because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right next to him, making sure he’s okay.”

 

“Right,” he says, and I see him try to backpedal before my eyes. “I just mean--”

 

“I know what you mean, Henry.” I sigh, feeling my face burn involuntarily. “And I’m sorry but I’m not interested.”

 

“Right.” Henry repeats. “Like, ever?”

 

“Certainly not right now,” I say dryly, amazed that he’s still trying. “I have Newt--”

 

“Newt. Right.” His face scrunches a little. It’s unlikely that Henry knows much about the blonde ex-runner at all, seeing as he’s the Greenie and was only here for five days before Newt jumped. “Are you and him…”

 

Ah.  _ Oh _ . I’m not oblivious enough for  _ that _ implication to go over my head. “We’re too young for stuff like that, man.”

 

Henry eyes me, hazel eyes piercing. I feel like I’m under a microscope. “So you’re uncomfortable  _ now _ ,” he begins, “But maybe not later? Because that wasn’t a  _ no _ about you and the lizard dude. You can tell me if you’re interested in him!”

 

He suddenly looks far too excited about my response than I expected someone who’s expressed interest in me to be.

 

_ Trait detected. _ I think, a little stunned.  _ Gossip _ .  _ Henry’s a  _ gossip. 

 

He’d probably get along with Minho, if the Runner would stop glaring at the Greenie for whatever reason. Now that I think about it, a lot of people don’t really like the Greenie. It couldn’t  _ all _ be to protect my virtue or whatever Clint had said. It couldn’t be. That’d be ridiculous.

 

“I haven’t thought about it.” My tongue feels numb. I’m not lying though, I haven’t really thought about being in a relationship with someone. Thinking that Newt was  _ pretty  _ was one thing -- but dating him? Or whatever could constitute as dating in a place like this? It hadn’t even crossed my mind.

 

“Really?” Henry prods, looking incredulous. He’s taking my words with a grain of salt.

 

“Really.” I swallow, wringing my hands. “I don’t think I could focus on a relationship right now. And I -- I’m really not comfortable thinking about it. I just...I’m what? Maybe fourteen? Fifteen at the oldest? Maybe in a few years I’ll be more interested but…” I shrug helplessly, very much eager to get this conversation over with. 

 

“Okay, okay,” Henry steps back in surrender, mischief in his smirk. “Guess I’ll have to wait then, huh?”

 

“No, Henry--” I begin, pinching the bridge of my nose, but he’s already jogging away back to the fields. “Dammit.”

 

With an exasperated sigh I finally step back into the Medhut. Newt looks up as I enter, looking strangely pleased and contemplative. 

 

“Ready to get out?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “I’m startin’ to prune.”

 

* * *

 

Dmitri comes up about two weeks later. He’s got shaggy black hair and blue eyes and he can’t do  _ anything _ . No, that’s not right. A bit rude, actually. He can do some things, but not what we need. Not well. Nick thought we needed to lighten our spirits a bit (likely because of Newt), so he proposed we throw parties for the Greenies. In all honesty, it’s more a party for us than the Greenie, because Dmitri was still reeling from the whole situation to really appreciate it. 

 

But it did lighten the mood a bit.

 

Until Dmitri started his trial week. 

 

He was clumsy, weak-willed, and weak-stomached. Winston kicked him out of the Blood House after he vomited.  _ Twice.  _ Even Zart, who was one of the most laid back guys I knew, got frustrated with the poor kid when he managed to somehow uproot an entire row of newly growing plants instead of weeds. He started a fire in the kitchen and Frypan had to bring the kid to Clint, Jeff, and I after he burned his hands. Clint and I let Jeff handle the wailing Greenie, since the boy was put on his roster. 

 

Dmitri lasted about two seconds with Gally before the Keeper almost killed him, enraged yells had been heard from across the Glade. We were lucky we didn’t need to put either of them in the slammer -- Dmitri just cowered while Gally fumed, so it didn’t get physical. 

 

Billy and Jackson immediately vetoed Dmitri as a Bagger after he took one look at the graves and threw up. He does a lot of vomiting. I’d be concerned -- if I didn’t just think he was extremely squeamish. With that in mind, I knew there was no way he’d make a Medjack.

 

“How do you feel about blood?” Clint deadpans, hands clasped before him on his desk like he’s some evil CEO. 

 

Dmitri turns green at just the thought, letting us know quite frankly that he’d never last working with us. I didn’t trust him within ten feet of Newt -- the kid was like a newborn foal, tripping over everything and everyone. With his luck, he’d trip and fall right on Newt’s leg and make it worse.

 

The clumsiness also rules him out as a Runner. I’ve never seen Minho look so completely bewildered by how  _ bad _ someone ran, it was  _ hilarious _ . But this leaves us all with a problem. If Dmitri can’t be trusted to do any of the jobs we have, then what could we do with him?

 

“Permanent laundry duty?” I suggest to Minho at dinner one night, Dmitri’s seven days of trial almost up. “It’s a real pain for us to rotate that job while balancing our own.”

 

Minho purses his lips, considering. “You know, that could actually work.”

 

“Clean-up duty is just as important as any of our other jobs,” I press, thinking of the bathrooms and how unfair it is for the cooks to both make our food and then clean up after us. “It could also give Fry and them a break if someone else did the dishes.”

 

“Y’know, Frypan brought that up last meeting.” Minho says, acknowledging the truth of my statement. “I’ll say something tomorrow, when we make the final decision. If no one takes him in then…”

 

“No one’s gonna take him,” I deadpan. I’m not usually so bluntly cruel but it’s obvious that Dmitri just  _ can’t _ do any of the jobs. Or at least, he’d made such bad first impressions during the trial week that no one wanted to be responsible for him. 

 

Minho grimaces. “Ahh, I know. You’re right…” He shakes his head, staring down at his plate.

 

“Hey,” I grip the edges of my own plate. “Come eat in the Medhut with me.”

 

“What?” he looks up in confusion, but he’s also already following my movements and standing as well. 

 

“Let’s eat with Newt.” The blonde could use some company. He should still be eating, too. Jeff had just brought his dinner a few minutes ago. “He’s going stir crazy and you’re a good distraction.”

 

Minho laughs, “Oh man, that must suck! How much longer is he holed up for then?”

 

“Oh, he’s not going  _ anywhere _ for another three or four months, and then it’s careful movements and crutches for another two. I’m not letting him put any weight on that leg of his for the next six months if I can help it.” I didn’t know too much about how long it took bones to heal, but it seemed like waiting that long was better than moving too quickly and re-injuring the leg.

 

Minho makes a noise a sympathy. “Shuck, he’s gonna go crazy sittin’ there for that long.”

 

“Yeah, well.” I sniff, holding my head up as we approach the Medhut. “He’s gonna listen and heal even if I have to strap him to the bed.”

 

“Strap who to the bed?” Newt asks as we enter, hearing the tail end of our conversation. His fork is halfway to his mouth and he’s watching us with curious amusement.

 

“ _ You _ , if you don’t listen to your doctor and take it easy.” 

 

Newt holds a hand to his chest like he’s offended and his tone matches, “What, you think I don’t listen to you?”

 

“I think he hears every word you say, Bambi.” Minho snorts, tugging Jeff’s empty stool over so he can sit next to Newt’s bed. I follow suit, pulling my own stool over. 

 

“You think that’ll last in the coming months?” I ask, scoffing. 

 

Newt swallows a mouthful of food and smacks his lips together. “...months?”

 

“Oh yes,” Minho says, gleeful in the face of Newt’s impending doom. “ _ Months. _ ”

 

“Bugger.”

 

* * *

 

The next Greenie to come up is Aiden and he ends up being a Builder. He’s a quiet kid with dark skin and a wild mane of hair and Gally actually likes him well enough. We all do. It’s a bit of a relief after getting Dmitri -- not that the previous Greenie isn’t settling in well in his new job as a Slopper. Cleaning is about all he’s good for, unfortunately. I’d feel bad, except that during his physical he somehow managed to trip over his own feet into my desk and break his newly received bottles of lube all over my workspace. Now at least three Gladers had medical journals with suspicious, crinkly stains on some of the pages. 

 

Turns out I  _ can _ get mad. Even though it’s the soft, chilly kind rather than a loud, wrathful explosion. 

 

“You’re bloody terrifying when you’re mad, love.” Newt said about five minutes after I’d booted Dmitri out of the Medhut, not even trusting him to clean up the mess without making a bigger one. “And you don’t even raise your voice. That’s the  _ worst _ .”

 

He sounds more awed and amused than anything, so I huff out a laugh. “Why be loud when being quiet is just as effective?”

 

“Anyone who crosses you has to be completely mad.” he shakes his head. “Not that anyone wants to, mind you.”

 

“Drama doesn’t interest me.” I say, mopping up the greasy gel across my desk with a towel. “Getting into arguments seems really tiring. I don’t know how Gally does it.”

 

“Lots of practice.” Newt shrugs, “And those eyebrows give him power.”

 

But that was weeks ago. Aiden’s been here for a while and a new Greenie is expected soon. We’re nearing the two month mark since Newt’s...accident. Suicide attempt. Just thinking about it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’ve held true to my promise of sticking by Newt’s side. I haven’t slept in my hammock the entire time he’s been laid up in the Medhut, instead I’ve been sleeping in the medbed beside Newt’s. Most nights I push them together so I can be as close to Newt as possible. He doesn’t say anything about it, and I don’t think he minds. 

 

It’s comforting, sleeping beside another person. That hollow part inside me aches when I close my eyes and listen to Newt’s soft breathing. At times I can imagine myself away from here, in a dark room. I can’t see anything, but I feel a presence pressed my side and hear breathing that matches my own. I feel a heart that beats in sync with my own. It’s not Newt who I imagine beside me when I shut my eyes and give myself over to my senses. But having him there isn’t bad by any stretch of the imagination.

 

By the time month three rolls around (the newest Greenie is Peter and the next one comes tomorrow), I don’t know how I ever got a good night's rest without someone sleeping beside me.

 

“Newt,” I whisper, the world is shadow and orange candlelight. Newt’s hair looks like fire, like molten, spun gold.

 

“What?” he whispers back. Our beds are pressed together again and I can feel the heat of him just inches away. The nights, while not frigid by any means, are significantly cooler than the stifling warmth of the day.

 

“I don’t think I can sleep alone anymore.” The very idea seemed daunting.

 

“What do you mean?” he asks, and I hear more than see him shift his shoulders and head to look at me. “You do know that the hammocks are close enough--”

 

“No, I know.” I interrupt. He’s right, the hammocks outside are all pretty tight knit, enough that you can hear Doug snoring from a few rows over. But being in separate hammocks means you don’t hear quiet breath in your ear, or feel the warmth of a body against your own. “It’s just different when you’re right beside someone. Feels nicer.  _ Safe _ .”

 

Newt is quiet for a moment. I can’t make out the expression on his face in the darkness.

 

“Ok.” he says. “Sleep with me.”

 

“Really?” Though I was hoping that would be the case, I didn’t want to expect anything from him. “You’d let me?”

 

“Eddie,” he chuckles, “I’ve gotten used to you too. When I get out of here -- when I can sleep in a hammock again -- sleep with me.”

 

“What if I’m clingy?” I muse, poking his side gently. “What if I’m super heavy and I suffocate you in your sleep?”

 

“First of all, you’re not heavy.” Newt laughs, smacking my hand away blindly. “I know I’m a tad boney, but you couldn’t squish me if you tried! As for the clingy part...I don’t mind it so much when it’s you, love.”

 

For a very long minute all I can hear is the symphony of crickets and my own pulse. A steady wave of heat encompasses my face and I know without doubt that I’m blushing to the roots of my hair. I’ve never been so glad for the darkness. 

 

“Okay,” I hear myself say, voice low. “I’ll sleep with you.”

 

“Good that.” Newt whispers, like it’s no big deal. Like I’m not the color of a ripe tomato. There’s a shift, a rustle of movement, then I feel slender fingers brush my arm. Newt’s fingertips trace down the length of my forearm, running over my pulse in a slow glide. He slips his hand into my own, intertwining our fingers.

 

I stare at the side of his face in the dim light, unable to make out features but finding comfort in the slope of his cheek and jaw. I wonder what kind of expression he’s making right now.

 

“Goodnight, Newt.” I whisper.

 

“Goodnight, love.”

 

* * *

 

In the Glade, we’re all incredibly close to one another. It’s an enclosed space and we do everything together, so it’s no surprise that everyone knows everyone, especially since at this point there’s only thirty-two of us. More than there’s ever been before, but still a small population.

 

But spending 24/7 with someone? Watching them cry and struggle; helping them bathe, dress, and use the bathroom? When you’re exposed to a person’s vulnerabilities, you become much closer than you can imagine. That’s how it was with Newt and I. I saw him at his worst and he relied on me to care for him, I provided him with whatever I could while he was cooped up in bed for  _ months _ . That forges a bond beyond simple friendship.

 

It was month five. One more month until I’d let him wander around normally. Probably. For the past month and a half we’ve been doing a lot of physical therapy. Newt says he’s fine, but I don’t want to take any chances. His leg had been broken in three different places, his ankle twisted, and god knows how badly his muscles and ligaments had been strained. Six months seemed like a crazy amount of time but I felt like it was safer than just letting Newt walk right away. With crutches he was allowed to walk back and forth across the Medhut and we did a lot of careful stretches together. 

 

It wouldn’t be perfect. It would never be perfect. Like I’d expected, there was weakness in his ankle and knee now. He had a limp. By five months, the bones were most certainly set and Newt was no longer in pain. Of any kind. All his injuries had healed and all that remained was the limp and a gnarly scar from his ankle to halfway up his shin.

 

“I don’t know…” I bit my lip, worrying it between my teeth.

 

“It’s fine, I swear.” Newt argues, sitting on the edge of the medbed with his feet on the ground. All the splints are off, they have been for three weeks now. I still haven’t let him wear long pants, just underwear and shorts so I have constant access to his leg. “I’ll tell you right away if I feel somethin’ off. Swear it.”

 

“...you better.” I mutter, but huff and shrug my shoulders. Newt grins at me, quick and happy. He squares his shoulders and pushes to his feet. I watch his face carefully for any signs of distress. There’s none.

 

Tentatively he takes a few steps forward, his first without crutches. I hover anxiously by his side, probably biting a hole in my lip. His gait is lopsided, showing off a heavy limp, but he’s walking and not in pain. Newt takes a couple more steps forward, then a few steps to the left. He stands on his good leg and rolls out the ankle of his right. 

 

“Alright?” I ask, moving closer to his side. Newt glances down at me. He’s grown again while laid up in bed.

 

“Yeah. Just stretchin’ it out. I promise it doesn’t hurt.” he almost looks exasperated at my hovering, but in all the time we’ve spent together he’s never snapped at me for my  mother-henning, only watched me with a soft, careful expression. 

 

“I should measure you.” I blurt out, noting with no small amount of amusement that I actually have to tilt my chin upwards to meet his eyes. “You’ve missed like,  _ four _ height updates.”

 

Newt looks at me, smug. “Yeah, I noticed you shrunk.”

 

“Did  _ not _ ,” I grumble, leaving his side to hunt for the measuring tape. “You grow like a weed.”

 

“How tall are you now, love?” he asks, voice deceptively curious.

 

“...5’7”.” I locate the measuring tape and head back over, crouching beside him to fit the end of it under his foot.

 

Newt obediently stands still. “Right...and how tall am I?”

 

I stand, tugging the tape taut and holding it up until I can read the number that the top of his head brushes. “5’10”.”

 

The blonde is gangly, all long legs and toned arms. Being laid up has softened some of his muscle, but his thighs are still rock hard from all the running. Not that I look at his thighs. Or any of his muscles for that matter -- I only notice them when necessary. 

 

“Three inches,” he hums. I’ll never understand why he like being taller -- but that’s probably because I’m  _ not _ tall. 

 

“More importantly,” I say, folding up the tape. “Zart said he’d be fine if you felt like helping out with the Track-hoes. You still want to do that, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Newt nods, accepting the topic change easily enough despite the lingering smile. “When am I free to work, Doc?”

 

I sigh, looking at how at ease he is on his feet. I still want to wait another month, but I can tell Newt is antsy, even if he doesn’t want me to see it. 

 

“Two weeks.” I compromise. “And then you gotta be careful, okay? Slow going. Build up the work schedule over time, like we talked about.”

 

“Oh thank god,” he exhales, rolling his head back. “I can do that. Two weeks.”

 

“Two weeks.” I affirm.

 

“Eddie,” Newt looks at me, expression serious. His eyebrows aren’t pinched though, so it isn’t the  _ stressed _ kind of serious he usually is. “I want to thank you, really. I’ve told you a few times over these past few months but I mean it.”

 

I shift, nervous under his intense stare.  _ It’s nothing _ , I want to say, but these past few months were clearly not  _ nothing _ . Newt smiles at me softly as I struggle to find words, waiting patiently for a response. He knows me so well now, I’m surprised he isn’t sick of seeing my face. 

 

“Of course, Newt.” I return his smile with one of my own, shaky but genuine. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

 

Newt’s grin widens for a split second, before he’s knocking my shoulder with his own and laughing. It’s a beautiful thing, to see him so happy and open. That laughter and those smiles -- they’d been so rare before. Now he seemed...accepting. Settled. There were still times at night when he broke down, times when he didn’t want to talk or move or do anything but lay in bed. But those episodes were becoming fewer and farther between. 

 

“You tell a guy that,” Newt shakes his head, golden locks falling across brow. “He might get ideas.”

 

“ _ Ideas _ .” A voice mimics, mocking. The two of us turn to see Minho standing in the doorway, he rolls his eyes when Newt glares. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting your poor attempt at flirting?”

 

“Sod off, Minho.” Newt groans, shifting towards the other boy. 

 

“I can’t believe this, I come here to visit my dear friend and this is what I get?” Minho sniffs with exaggerated sadness, “Fine. I didn’t like you anyway. I’m actually here for Eddie. Because  _ he’s _ nice. We’re bros. Those who shower together die together.”

 

“Shower together?” Newt asks, voice two notches too loud and cracking. He glances from Minho to me with wide, startled eyes.

 

“Someone had to take care of him while you were snoozin’ away in here.” the tanned boy grins, all mischief and taunt.

 

“You mean our sob-fest in our underwear?” I ask, deadpan. This doesn’t really seem like an appropriate topic.

 

“Underwear?” Newt repeats, like a broken record. Both his eyebrows raise and he tilts his head, expression clearly stating  _ you better talk _ . 

 

Minho raises his hands. “Don’t look at me like that. Nothing happened. Get your mind outta the gutter. Christ, sitting in here surrounded by people...you must be  _ tense _ . No wonder you’re so aggressive.”

 

“Oh,” I blink, gaze darting between the two of them. Newt hadn’t really gotten any alone time these past few months. I hadn’t even thought of that. “Newt, are you--”

 

“Minho, I’m gonna bloody strangle you.” he interrupts, smile promising pain.

 

The Runner grins, wide and energetic, before he strides forward and claps Newt’s shoulder. “Glad you’re up and moving again, shank.”

 

I feel a little lost. “Uh…”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Newt grunts, his frame losing all tension. A smile that matches Minho’s stretches across his lips. I wonder if I’ll ever understand them. Newt is one thing, but the two of them together? Whenever they talk I feel like I’m missing a piece of a puzzle.

 

“If you say so…” I shrug.

 

“Oh!” Minho exclaims, “By the way, I’m making Justin a Runner.”

 

“Really?” I ask, thinking of the tall boy. He looked like a stiff breeze could knock him over.

 

“I know he doesn’t look like much, but you should see him run. He’s got some stamina.” Minho explains, shifting his gaze from me to Newt, who has gone quiet.

 

Newt licks his lips and breathes in. I know, just by the way he’s twisting his mouth and furrowing his brow, that he feels guilty. There aren’t enough Runners now, not without him and there’s no way he’ll ever be a Runner again. If we include Justin, we’ll need two more Runners to keep Nick and Alby in the Glade and eight Runners in the Maze.

 

“Good that.” he finally says. “It’s about time you found someone else.”

 

“Yeah.” Minho replies, slowly. He’s never been one to sugarcoat. “But aside from that, Stephen’s gonna do that thing today.”

 

“Ugh,” I groan, “Is he crazy? Don’t answer that. He’s crazy.”

 

Newt and Minho look at me with twin expressions of amusement.

 

“Can’t do much to stop him. He’s determined since it was his idea, and Nick and Alby aren’t doing anything to turn him off it.” Minho shrugs. He himself isn’t particularly for or against the idea. Partially, he’d confessed, because he was certain the only exit was through the Maze.

 

“So he really wants to do this?” Newt questions, mildly disbelieving. If it was  _ him  _ he wouldn’t dare.

 

“Oh yeah. Hundred percent.” Minho nods.

 

“Gonna get himself killed…” I mutter, legitimately stressed about this.  _ This _ being Stephen’s attempt at going down the box hole. It didn’t go back down when you waited in the box, no matter how long you did so. So he had the bright idea of going down  _ after _ the box left. As in,  _ down  _ a sheer elevator shaft into the darkness, of which we didn’t know the depth or what lay below. He’d been contemplating it for almost two months now, but we hadn’t had the supplies to spare to make a rope of substantial length for him to rappel down with.

 

So it's taken some time. But now, apparently, he was ready to try.

 

“Yeah, I’m not a big fan of this either.” Newt chips in, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb. Minho glances between the two of us, exasperated. “But like Minho said, we can’t stop him. Just be ready for anything, love.”

 

Minho shakes his head, “You two are a real joys to have around, you know that?”

 

“Hey, I’m bein’ realistic here.” There’s too many unknowns for me to feel comfortable with this plan. I hate not knowing. Makes me anxious. Newt knocks my hand with his own, catching my eye. I breathe out a sigh, relaxing my shoulders.

 

“Pessimistic, more like.” the Runner grumbles, but drops it. “So, you gonna come out and watch or what? I’m sure everyone would like to see you walk around for once. The past few Greenies barely know who you are.”

 

“I hear I’ve missed a few parties,” the corner of Newt’s mouth quirks up. “Literally. I heard them.”

 

“Sorry man,” Minho shrugs. “Don’t worry, there’ll be another soon enough.”

 

“Ugh,” I grimace. “They aren’t that great.”

 

I’d only stopped by for a few minutes each time to introduce myself to the Greenie, choosing to spend time with Newt instead of surrounded by raucous boys. A party person I was not.

 

“You’re just boring.” Minho sticks his tongue out at me before directing his attention to Newt. “You gotta swear you’ll check it out when the next Greenie comes up -- and try some of Gally’s brew.”

 

“No!” I complain, making a sound of disgust with an expression to match.

 

Newt looks curious. “What’d Gally do now?”

 

“Only made the  _ best _ drink ever.” 

 

“Debatable,” I counter, muttering. No one but Gally knew the content of the drink, but I definitely knew alcohol was in it. How we even got access to alcohol I’ll never know. Who in their right mind gives a bunch of teenagers booze? Probably the same people who thought it was okay to lock us in a cage.

 

“Don’t listen to him, he’s a stick in the mud.” Minho puts a hand on Newt’s shoulder. “I’ll admit, Gally’s brew tastes like klunk but man, does it make you feel awesome.”

 

“I fail to see how something that tastes like klunk could possibly make you feel good.” Newt says, skeptical. 

 

“Trust me.” Minho urges. “You’re gonna love it.”

 

The blonde glances at my grimacing expression curiously. “Is it really that bad?”

 

“Only had a sip,” I admit. “Spit it right out. It’s not my taste.”

 

Newt frowns. I see Minho roll his eyes. 

 

“But,” I drawl, it wouldn’t be right to deny Newt the option of trying it. I didn’t have any control over him, even if he did seem to hold my opinion in high regard. “There’s nothing  _ wrong _ with it. Just be careful. Give it a try if you really wanna.”

 

“C’mon, you got permission from the missus, now you gotta.” Minho teases, shaking Newt gently by his shoulder, mindful of the blonde’s balance and weak leg.

 

“Slim it,” I scold without any real heat.

 

“Alright, alright,” Newt concedes, grinning. Minho’s excitement is infectious. “I’ll try it.”

 

“Good that. Now come on, let’s watch Stephen enter the Box hole.” Minho claps both of us on the shoulder and skips out of the Medhut.

 

Newt and I exchange looks, soft smiles playing on our lips. He nudges me with his elbow and I nudge him right back, matching him step for step as he moves. His hand brushes against my own as he walks, arms swaying with the momentum of his limp. I’m tempted to take it, merely for the comfort it brings, but I don’t know if Newt would be comfortable with that. I’m too anxious to ask. Anxiety. That’s actually why I want to hold his hand, because this whole situation makes me anxious.

 

I’m getting a bad feeling. 

 

I hate it when that happens. I can never tell if it’s my own instinct or the  _ other _ half. Over the past few months I’ve tried on multiple occasions to...speak to the person on the other end. There had to be someone, because there  _ was _ a voice that called to me when Newt…

 

Well, as long as I wasn’t actually crazy, that is. But  _ nothing _ . I hadn’t heard a peep from the weird mind voice. The feelings persisted, duller but still present. The other day I had a shock of pain in my foot, reminiscent of stubbing your toe harshly. It wasn’t  _ my  _ pain, as I’d been sitting. It had to be from  _ them _ . Or the Creators. Or maybe it was random body pain. Who knew? I sure didn’t. I liked to speculate though. Silly daydreams about impossible situations and reasons for it all. No matter what it is, I hope I don’t have to live feeling hollow like this for the rest of my life.

 

“Newt!”

 

Alby called out as we approached the Box. Most of the boys were already gathered around, eager to see the results. Stephen stood before the opened Box doors, peering down into the dark shaft. I swallowed tightly.

 

“Alby,” Newt greeted, clasping the other boy’s hand when offered. 

 

“It’s good to see you up, been too long.” Alby gestures to Stephen, “Here to watch?”

 

“Yeah,” Newt eyes Stephen as the boy slips into a handmade harness, rope tied securely around him. “We sure that’s safe?”

 

Nick is the one who answers, coming up beside Alby. “Not really, but what else is new.”

 

We step a little closer, joining the bulk of the group. A few boys greet Newt happily, glad to see him back up on his feet. A cluster of them hold tight to the other end of the rope attached to Stephen. They’re going to lower him down the shaft. The whole concept makes me squeamish. One mishap and he could fall to his  _ death _ . It’s been a little over a year now but I still remember what it was like coming up in that metal death trap. It had not been a quick trip, and the Box  _ hadn’t  _ been moving slowly. That could only mean that the shaft went down  _ far _ . 

 

Stephen puts a leg over the edge, straddling the door. I wish someone would stop this. But no one will. We want to get out of here too badly, and if it’s possible to leave this way…

 

It suddenly doesn’t matter that we’re surrounded by all the Gladers. They’re not paying attention to us anyway. So I reach an inch to the side and grip Newt’s hand. I keep my eyes on Stephen’s form as he’s lowered into the Box hole, but I see Newt’s head turn to glance at me out of the corner of my eyes. He doesn’t say anything or pull away, instead he twists his hand to interlace our fingers together tightly.

 

“Anythin’?” Nick calls, leaning over the Box edge carefully. 

 

“I’m four feet in, ya shank.” Stephen calls back, garnering a few laughs from the crowd. “Gimme a moment, will ya?”

 

“Slinthead,” Nick mutters affectionately.

 

Stephen is lowered even further, the line of boys with the rope keeping a careful grip as it passes through their hands. He couldn’t be that heavy, Stephen was a bit on the smaller side, an inch shorter than me with reddish hair and freckles, his frame thin and lean.

 

“What about now?” Nick calls down again, after a minute has passed.

 

“Nothin’,” Stephen’s voice echoes up the shaft, distorted. “It looks like there’s still a long way to go, can barely see anythin’ even with these shuckin’ lights.”

 

“Alright.” Sighing, Nick glances at the remaining rope length. There is every bit the possibility that it’s simply not long enough. “You wanna keep going?”

 

“Yeah!” Stephen’s call is a little fainter, more echoing. “I think there’s--”

 

He stops.

 

“Stephen?” Nick yells down the Box hole. The crowd stirs, nervous. For a moment there is nothing, and then--

 

“I think -- I think somethin’ is happening!” Stephen shouts. I can’t tell if he’s panicked or curious.

 

“Pull him up.” Nick snaps, turning to the boys with the rope. “Do it!”

 

There’s a whirring noise from deep within the hole. Nick grips the edge tightly and peers over, squinting into the dark, Alby stoops by his side, brows drawn low. The line of boys start pulling.

 

“What the--!” We hear Stephen yelp, followed by a louder whirring. 

 

“Stephen?” Alby yells down. There’s no response. 

 

Nick whirls around. “Hurry up and  _ pull him! _ ” he screams, yanking on the rope himself and heaving. 

 

I breathe out heavily, gripping Newt’s hand tightly. He squeezes back and then wiggles his hand to signal release. I let it go instantly, but instead of stepping away like I’d expected he slips his arm around my shoulders and draws me in against his side. Instinctively, I wrap my own arm around his waist, pressing the side of my face against his shoulder in a pseudo hug. 

 

“C’mon, c’mon!” Nick cries out. 

 

“I think I see him!” Alby peers over the edge of the Box hole, expression shifting from relief to horror. “Oh my god--”

 

He backs up, tripping over his feet and falling on his rear. The rope pulls taut and Stephen comes over the edge of the box.

 

Pale-faced and open-mouthed, blue eyes glassy and unseeing. Blood pools around him where he lays on the ground by the Box hole. Where  _ half _ of him lays. Cleanly, he’s been cut in half at the waist. Organs and tissue hang from his skin, spilling from him like an overturned basket of fruit. Someone screams. I hear gagging and the sound of liquid hitting the ground. 

 

“Oh my god.” I breathe, unable to take my eyes off his severed form. He didn’t even scream. Had he died instantly? “ _ Oh my god. _ ”

 

“Bloody hell,” Newt gasps, his grip on my shoulder tightening. With surprising force, he twists my body until I’m pressed against his chest, my face buried against his collarbone. “Don’t look, don’t look.”

 

It’s too late, I’ve already seen him. But I appreciate the gesture. (Even if I’ll never unsee that. Never.) I shake. I wrap my arms around Newt’s waist and press against him tightly. To his credit, he doesn’t even stumble when I put some of my weight on him, even with his leg. He stands tall and strong, one hand between my shoulder blades and the other pressed to the back of my head, stroking through my dark, messy hair.

 

There’s a weak moaning sound echoing in my ears. When Newt squeezes me to him a bit firmer and mutters something soothing I realize it’s coming from me. 

 

Stephen is dead. There is no need for a Medjack, even though I hear Clint and Jeff talking as they approach the body. They’re braver than I am to get up close, but even they know there isn’t anything to be done. No...this is a job for Billy and Jackson. The Baggers.

 

He was mine to take care of. I have his notebook in the Medhut cabinet, I’m the one who fills it out. I’m the one who saw him every month to check up on his health. He was nice. Exuberant. Lively. And now all I can see are his intestines spilling from his sheared corpse, slicking the grass with crimson.

 

“C’mon, love.” Newt murmurs in my ear, shifting his weight. “Let’s get back to the hut, alright?”

 

I take a shuddering breath, gripping his shirt tightly. I’m unable to release him, I don’t want to risk turning around. I shake my head against his neck. “Can’t, can’t…. _ Newt _ .”

 

Newt coos gently, hand rubbing up and down my spine. “Ok, ok, just -- walk with me. Slowly now. Slowly, love.”

 

He takes a step to the side and I move with him, attached like a limpet. Slow and steady we make our way from the explosion of shrieks and cries the crowd has turned into. I can’t bear to hear the sounds of gagging and screaming, not with that image in my head. It makes my own stomach churn.

 

“Almost there,” Newt whispers, breath tickling my hair. 

 

There is agony in my gut. Overwhelming and amplified twofold. I don’t understand. Why is this happening to us? Why does this  _ keep _ happening? How could these creators put us in here to die? How cruel were they? I didn’t want to grow used to death. I didn’t want to fear who it would take next.

 

We step into the shade of the Medhut. The familiar walls help me breathe a little easier. I suspect it’s different for Newt, who’s been confined here to recover for so long. At least I had been able to leave when I wished.

 

“What do you need, Eddie? Tell me what you need.” Newt all but begs, trying to get any kind of response from me. I’m not sure how long he’s been trying to goad me into speaking. Probably for a few minutes, if the desperation in his tone means anything.

 

“I don’t know,” I heave and gasp, chest shivering. My words are drawn out moans. “I don’t know. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

 

“Alright,” Newt moves, tugging us towards his designated bed. He collapses onto it, grunting a little as he tugs me down with him. “We’ve got that bucket right there, so if you feel like you need to puke don’t hold back.”

 

Lying back, he pulls me with him so I’m resting against his chest. He rearranges me against his body like I’m a doll. Like I weigh nothing at all. I press my face into his neck, my mouth against his pulse and my limbs rising as his chest does. He is alive. He is  _ alive _ .

  
_ Please, no more. _ I think, breathing in the scent of soap and wood.  _ We don’t deserve this. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how do you guys feel about a side fic with one-shots of Newt's POV?


	11. Falter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long! been pretty busy lately with finals, but I'm back now and college is done until the fall! this chapter is pretty wild...

I make Newt wait a week before I allow him to sleep back outside in the hammocks. His and mine have remained untouched all through the months despite the new Greenies, Gally was thoughtful enough to menacingly steer anyone away who tried to take them. He and the other Builders put up new ones and talked about expanding the canopy. We were running out of sleeping space again. There were also plans to make an outdoor eating area. The Homestead really was getting too crowded during mealtimes. I’d been taking most of my meals into the Medhut lately, eating with Clint and Jeff and occasionally some others -- like Newt.

 

“Honestly, Eddie. You’re more nervous than I am, and  _ I’m  _ the one with the bum leg.” Newt huffs, shakily slipping into his hammock. It’s been awhile, so he’ll have to relearn how to get in and out with the usual graceful ease. 

 

The sun has already dropped behind the walls, bathing the Glade in shadows and eerie moonlight. Candles and torches have just finished being lit, blazing bright enough to make passage easy. They will burn out within a few hours -- long before dawn, as they usually do. 

 

Newt shifts in the hammock, beckoning me with a lazy wave of his hand. For a long moment I simply watch him as he lounges casually, healed and relaxed -- the limp and scars out of sight and therefore out of mind. For now. The canvas sheets we’ve strung up as hammocks are sturdy, that much is true. The Creators didn’t give us poor supplies….just limited quantities of it. But I wasn’t sure if they were big enough for two boys. Then again, Newt was slim despite his length and I was only a bit broader, though shorter. We weren’t large. Not like Fry or Nick who were both tall with wide shoulders. I bet we could fit.  _ Totally. _

 

“Stop thinkin’ so much, I can see your wheels turning from here.” The blonde snorts, hand dropping to his side. He can’t shift over to one side just yet or else he’ll risk unbalancing the hammock. 

 

“I’m just….figuring out the best way to approach this.” I defend, lips curling into an involuntary pout in the face of Newt’s raised eyebrow. He’s got an expression on his face that says he’s merely humoring me. 

 

Tentatively, I put a hand on the edge of the hammock and heft a leg over. I’m very careful not to put any of my limbs or weight on Newt’s right leg as I, for all intents and purposes,  _ clamber  _ on top of him. The hammock wobbles and Newt’s hands reflexively come up to grasp my hips as I end up straddling his waist. 

 

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and eyes half-lidded. The flickering flames in the dark make his eyes glitter like black gems, the brown of his irises washed away from lack of light. I swallow, hands against his shoulders. 

 

“Sorry.” I whisper reflexively before lowering myself down until I’m all but laying on top of him. “We didn’t think this through, did we?” 

 

“Not really.” he laughs quietly, mindful of the boys beginning to settle down around us. “Too bloody late to go back now.”

 

“Do you want to?” I ask, shifting a little so we’re a bit more side-to-side. We’re still tucked together, him on his back and me on my stomach, slightly overlapping his arm. “Go back, I mean. I can get off if you’re uncomfortable.”

 

“No,” Newt shakes his head quickly, “I wasn’t bein’ serious. But maybe we could move around a bit more, my arm’s gonna fall asleep underneath you.”

 

Yeah, his arm isn’t very comfortable to lay on. “Oh, right. Yeah.”

 

A bit more finagling and we finally find a position we’re comfortable in. We’re curled together, me against his left side, this time my head is tucked atop his chest and collarbone while his arm circles around me. I’m still on my stomach, my left arm thrown over Newt’s waist and the other curled beneath me.

 

“Is this okay?” I ask, feeling a bit odd. When we slept together in the Medhut we weren’t this close. This is more like...cuddling. Actually, it’s  _ exactly _ that. We’re cuddling. I’m pretty sure I can hear snickering from a few hammocks over. I’d bet anything it’s Minho.

 

“...maybe.” Newt furrows his brow, looking contemplative. “Actually, lemme try something.”

 

We move again, whispering directions at each other and freezing whenever the hammock tilts too abruptly. When we settle again (for the final time) it’s in a new position. I lie on my side, facing in towards the canopy area. Newt is pressed behind me, his chest to my back.

 

Spooning. This is definitely -- a hundred and ten percent --  _ spooning. _ The weight of his arm settles around my waist and I feel the barest hint of breath against my neck, his nose brushing the back of my head. Hopefully I don’t twist in my sleep and backwards headbutt him in the nose. That’s a legitimate fear of mine. I’ve never slept beside anyone like this -- that I can remember. That gaping hole in my memory never goes unacknowledged for long, does it?

 

Amazingly enough -- it’s actually pretty nice.

 

Like this, I can feel his heartbeat against my spine. I can feel the heat of his body encompassing my own like a warm blanket. All of it -- his pulse, his warmth, his breath --  _ settles  _ a part of me. Not completely, but it’s a step forward. Like there’s a bunch of dominoes lined up and someone pushed them over -- but the line was disrupted. There’s more to fall, I know that, but it’s  _ started. _

 

It feels right. Comfortable. Good. I would almost say familiar, except it’s not really that. There’s no memory of cuddling or  _ whatever  _ that I can look back on. The whole experience feels new, no matter how nice. New. But also like I’m a piece of a puzzle that’s finally been connected to another. I’m part of something  _ larger, _ that’s just common knowledge to me. Even if I’ve never been connected before. Ugh. Late night analogies.

 

“I can hear you thinking,” Newt mutters, his words against the back of my neck. “What is it?”

 

“Nothing.” I wince. It’s very clearly something. Friends can cuddle if they want, certainly, but there’s something possessive about the hand on my waist. There’s something charged in the air, like static electricity. There’s just. Something.

 

About Newt.

 

“Uh-huh,” the disbelief in the blonde’s voice is clear as day. “If you don’t like it—”

 

“No!” I wince again, but this time at my volume. Lowering my voice, I continue, “It’s not that, I swear. It’s just. New.”

 

To settle any of his worries, I grip the hand on my waist with one of my own, solidifying his presence by my side. He breathes out sharply, tickling a few hairs at the base of my skull.

 

“Just tell me if you get uncomfortable, or if you wanna move or shift or your leg hurts or—”

 

Newt groans, squeezing my hand and hip. “Slim it, love. I’m bloody perfect right where I am.”

 

“Okay,” I swallow, sheepish. “I just wanna make sure…”

 

“Hey, lovebirds!” Minho snaps from two hammocks over. “Shut up and sleep or get a shuckin’ room!”

 

“I hate you,” Newt hisses venomously at the Runner, glowering when he hears amused chuckles from more than one hammock.

 

“Sorry!” I squeak, flushing in mortification. My teeth click as my jaw snaps shut. I kept forgetting that we weren’t exactly alone -- there was very little privacy in the Glade.

 

( Amazingly enough, it was the best night’s sleep I’d gotten in a long while. )

 

* * *

_ MONTH TWENTY-TWO. _

 

The Greenie who comes up this month cries for three hours and then throws up. The previous Greenie, Perry, is recruited to be a Runner. 

 

By now, this is the third party Newt’s been present at and he seems to enjoy them. He also enjoys Gally’s brew, which never fails to befuddle me.

 

“I don’t know how you can drink that.” I wrinkle my nose at him, sipping at a glass of plain ol’ water. The sounds of crickets and cicadas are almost drowned out by the roar of the fire and hollers of the boys. Gally and the other Builders had set up a sand pit of sorts for mock fighting. I didn’t see how you could get enjoyment out of beating the crap out of each other, but to each his own I guess. As long as they didn’t get  _ too _ physical and end up in the Medhut.

 

“It’s really not that bad after a while,” he says, laughing at my expression. 

 

We’re side by side before the bonfire, close enough to feel the heat but not enough for it to be uncomfortable. The glow of the flames casts sharp shadows across our features and makes Newt’s hair glint like a beacon. I’m very fond of the evening atmosphere and the soft colors it creates, it’s my favorite time of day.

 

Newt has one arm around my shoulders, the other hand cradling a jar of Gally’s mystery alcohol. I grimace when he pointedly takes a sip of it.

 

“Hey, Bambi!” Doug calls from the sandpit, mischievous grin on his lips. “C’mon over and fight!”

 

I groan, listening to the hooting of the other boys as they pressure me to accept. Newt shifts at my side, a stern look on his face. Almost everyone aside from Newt and I had given the sandpit a try, boys would be boys after all. I genuinely had no interest, but in Newt’s case no one wanted to challenge him out of worry. It bothered him sometimes, I could tell. But when it came down to it he wasn’t too interested in play fighting anyway, so he didn’t let it get to him.

 

I should say  _ no _ , like I usually do. But my blood seems to boil and suddenly I’m on my feet. I wanted to test something. Loud cheers went up as I stood, Doug looking shocked for all of two seconds before a wide grin covers it up.

 

“Eddie--” Newt starts, leaning forward like he’s about to get up as well.

 

“It’s fine,” I say, throwing him a smile over my shoulder. “Might as well try it once, yeah?”

 

“Eddie! Eddie!” A chant begins, a majority of the boys pressing around the circle and enclosing Doug and I. 

 

I take my shoes off, joining Doug barefoot in the pit. The sand makes everything a little off balance, but I shift my feet and anchor myself in. 

 

“I’ll go easy on you,” Doug promises, drawing a chorus of ooooh’s from the crowd. Though it’s meant to be teasing, I can tell he’s serious. No one takes me for a fighter. I  _ am  _ a Medjack after all -- meant to heal, not harm.

 

He moves forward. Sand sprays up beneath him as his bare feet gouge into it. His movements are uneven and lumbering. Something about him darting towards me is unsettling and makes my stomach drop. It’s just Doug. I’m not scared. I still feel a jolt of anxiety.

 

I don’t move until he’s close, his big, calloused hands outstretched to grab and shove. Like a puzzle piece slotting back in place, my brain  _ clicks _ . Doug’s movements suddenly look sloppy, amateur,  _ blockable _ . 

 

Instinctively, I sidestep at the last second while simultaneously swooping my arm under and up, knocking Doug’s arms into the air. He stumbles and slips back a few steps, just barely catching his balance. There’s a brief bout of silence before he’s moving forward again, the crowd roaring.

 

Doug’s fist flies out and I bat it away. Duck. Dodge. Step. It’s like dancing. The purpose isn’t truly to harm, but rather get the other boy outside the circle. It looks impossible for  _ me  _ to succeed when you consider the size difference between us. I’m faster, but Doug is taller and broader and more muscular. I remember the days when he was shorter than me. It looks like everyone is growing up.

 

_ Groin. Solar plexus. Bust out kneecaps. Palm to nose. Fist to trachea. Box ears. Dig your feet in and twist his arm. Break-- _

 

In my mind, I know exactly where to hit. I don’t follow through with it. Those movements in my head, they’re for  _ injury _ , not for play. Even if I don’t know  _ why _ I know this... _ that  _ much is obvious. To raise my hands against Doug would be….bad.

 

So I dance and dodge until he gets fed up and charges -- then I side-step just enough to trip him and send him sprawling, my arm shoving into his back to aid his momentum. He flies out of the circle and into Adam and Perry.

 

I straighten up, relatively put together aside from a few hairs out of place. My hands shake at my sides. Newt steps into the circle and claps a hand on my shoulder, I can barely hear his words over the howls of the boys and my own pulse.

 

“That was impressive,” he says, but his eyes are tight and his smile is insincere. I don’t blame him, I myself don’t understand these abilities of mine. Those were learned, practiced movements, like muscle memory. Maneuvering out of the way seemed so natural. Instinctive. 

 

Wherever I came from  _ Before _ ...it must have been a rough place.

 

“Thanks.” I reply.

 

“I didn’t know you could fight!” Doug exclaims, no aggression in his voice. He’s already forgiven and forgotten, taking his loss with grace. He smacks my back with excited exuberance.

 

I offer him a shaky smile, ignoring the way my back is smarting, “I didn’t know either.”

 

* * *

Newt’s usually awake before me. He’s a light sleeper, so when Minho and Nick get up for running he does as well. But today I’m the first to awaken. Minho must have gotten up a little earlier, because the sun that he usually blocks out is sliding right across my eyes. I grunt and squint, too content and warm to move but also feeling increasingly agitated by the ray of light.

 

I shift a little under the arm slung over my waist. Spooning seems to be our go-to position. I almost always end up the little spoon -- and by  _ almost _ always I actually mean  _ always.  _ I’ve never been the big spoon. It’s not like we talk about it, and it’s been a habit for the past three months so I’d feel weird switching it up. As long as Newt’s comfortable with it, then so am I. 

 

Newt makes a soft sound by my ear and I freeze in my movements. His arm slides up to tuck me closer to him, his body angles against mine until we’re pressed so closely together only our clothes separate us. It’s not unusual. We’re constantly finding ourselves glued to each other’s sides. What  _ is _ a first is the hard heat I can feel pressing into the small of my back, right at the top of the curve of my ass. 

 

The knowledge of what  _ exactly _ is against me punches a sound from my throat. I slap a hand over my mouth but the surprised noise has already slipped out, loud in the quiet of the early morning. 

 

I can’t say this is surprising. It happens to everyone, even me. Our bodies can’t help it. But it’s never been so  _ obvious _ and  _ there _ . Against me.

 

Should I move? While a red flush is clearly settling across my cheeks, it’s Newt I’m worried about. I don’t want him to feel embarrassed by this if he wakes and notices. We’ve grown so close in the past year, I don’t want things to become awkward. He’s my best friend. 

 

Not that I thought something like this could throw a wrench in our relationship, not after the months I spent helping him bathe and use the bathroom. This is nothing compared to that. I hope. Who knows how teenagers act. Everything sexual seems so odd and funny to them. 

 

To us. Because I’m a teenager too. Even if I feel oddly detached. I know my body works the same as theirs. The same as  _ Newt’s _ . Yet I’ve never...touched myself like that. It feels unsafe to do here, with so many ears and eyes (and not all of them belonging to the Gladers). Plus, it’s easy to shove to the side in a place like this. Work to be done and very little time spent alone.

 

Whatever. We can get past this. It’s time for Newt to get up anyway, and as long as I don’t make it awkward he should be able to ignore it as well.

 

“Newt,” I say, speaking just above a whisper. It feels wrong to talk loudly when it’s so early, even if everyone is beginning to wake already. “Newt. Get up.”

 

He groans and gently knocks his forehead against the back of my skull. His body begins to make small movements as he enters the waking world. I remain motionless myself, mostly wary of tipping the hammock (it’s happened before) and also far too content to move just yet. My bones still feel heavy with sleep despite the anxious episode I’d just worked through. 

 

“Eddie?” Newt’s sleep voice is thick and about two octaves deeper than his normal one. It draws heat to my gut and I viciously stomp out the shiver threatening to snake down my spine.

 

“Good morning.” I say cheerfully, carefully tilting my own head back to brush against his in return. I pat the hand that’s curled around my torso.

 

Newt slides it down and around to rest at my hip once again, the motion drawing a line of fire through my shirt. I wonder if he felt the pounding of my heart. 

 

In the next moment, he freezes. The hand on my hip feels like a weight and his breath stutters. 

 

“Shit,” he retracts his hand. “Eddie, I’m sorry—”

 

“It’s fine.” I interrupt, “I don’t mind.”

 

That sounded a little strange, even to my ears. I wasn’t — I wasn’t trying to encourage the behavior, more like...placate him? Before he had a freak out? Yeah.

 

The hand settles back on my hip like a brand. “You don’t mind?” Newt sounds incredulous. Wondering. The hammock shakes as he moves, body rising up until he’s hovering over me. I slip from my side to sprawl on my back and look up at him, startled. 

 

“Newt?” 

 

His lips part. “Eddie, I—”

 

“Hey, are you guys up yet?” 

 

Newt and I flinch simultaneously and the hammock rocks dangerously before flipping both of us onto the ground. We flail and cry out as we topple over.

 

“Ow!” I groan, landing squarely on Newt who grunts in discomfort. I shuffle off immediately, worried I’d hurt him in the fall as he took the brunt of it. 

 

“Uh, sorry guys.” Zart apologizes, looking sheepish as he stares down at us.

 

“Ugh,” I move to my hands and knees. Newt wheezes a bit, the breath having been knocked out of him. I wave Zart away. “It’s fine. You alright, Newt?”

 

“Just peachy.” He mutters, leaning up on his elbows. “I’ll be up in a second, Zart.”

 

“Sure thing.” The boy says, still looking incredibly awkward. “I’ll just...be in the Homestead then.” He shuffles away quickly.

 

“Are you sure you’re ok?” I ask tentatively, hands hovering over his form. “Did you hit your head?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I swear.” Newt sighs, getting to his feet. The mood of the previous moment is shattered, leaving something tense behind. The blonde looks exasperated and agitated as he gets to his feet, but he still holds out a hand to help me up. “What about you?”

 

I take his hand, smiling cheekily, “You cushioned my fall.” 

 

“You’re welcome.” He says dryly, the shadow of a grin on his lips. He squeezes my hand once before letting it go.

 

“My knight in shining armor.” I quip, the phrase dancing off my tongue. I don’t know where I learned it, or even any facts about knights. But the words were familiar. Memory was a funny, tricky thing. No knowledge behind the context.

 

“Eddie, you’re the last person that needs a knight.” 

 

* * *

You get used to it after a while, the feeling of death. It’s never something I want to feel numb about, because I feel like it lessens the impact of the loss -- but I can’t help it. Now I see why it’s easier for Newt and the other boys who’d been here before me to move on. They mourn, sure. But they all have this awful mentality in which none of them expect to live their whole lives. They always expect to die. They always expect death. We’re safe, in relative terms. We can survive, but it’s not really  _ living. _

 

We don’t belong here.

 

“How’s it lookin’, Doc?” Gally asks, squinting up at me. 

 

He’s caught me while I’m perched halfway up the ladder of the new look-out post the Builders had been working on. There wasn’t really a reason that we needed it, but it was a cool project all the same. 

 

“Uh, pretty good so far.” I call back, looking at the rest of the rungs I’d have to climb. Glancing down at him and then at the view around me, I can say with certainty that I’m not a fan of heights. “Oh boy.”

 

“Maybe you should come down,” the Keeper suggests, tone harsh but not meant to be insulting. 

 

“That would -- uh, that’d be nice.” I’m sure the view from the top is gorgeous, but it’s not one I’ll be seeing any time soon. Slowly and carefully, I descend one step at a time until my feet hit the grass. “Oh, that’s better.”

 

Gally snorts, “Yeah, sure it is.”

 

“It’s really impressive though,” I say, admiring the structure from the safety of the ground. “I dunno how you pulled it off.”

 

It took months of work, long hours of crafting and bending over backwards to figure out how to make supports that high up. They’d been adamant, the Builders, that it had to be in the tallest tree in the Glade. The finished product was a looming, sturdy platform suspended high in the tree, tucked securely against the thick trunk and surrounded by green foliage. It overlooked the Glade, not high enough to peek over the walls but as high as you could get without climbing the vines. 

 

No one wanted to climb the vines.

 

While the platform had railings made of wood and thick vines to stop you from falling off the edge, it still terrified me. Falling in general seemed to terrifying me. Not that I didn’t trust the Builders, but I had a horrible fear of the whole thing dropping from beneath me.

 

Gally grunts and shrugs. He likes to play it off but I know he’s incredibly smart. He has to be, to figure out something like this. “You’re a Medjack, you don’t have to know how.”

 

“True,” I acquiesce, grinning wildly, “Good thing you’re here then.”

 

The Keeper shrugs, a heavy frown on his face. After knowing him so long, I can see by the softness of his eyes that he’s merely bashful, not angry. Gally isn’t very good at handling compliments. His exterior is hard and prickly. Like a hedgehog. His eyes avert for a second before he squares his shoulders. 

 

“Your boyfriend was looking for you, by the way.”

 

My face contorts in confusion. “My what?”

 

Gally stares. He stares a little more. He sucks his lips between his teeth and releases them. “Are you serious?”

 

“I could’a sworn I told Henry I wasn’t interested like five times yesterday -- ”

 

“It’s not,” Gally shakes his head, eyes rolling to the sky. “It’s not Henry. It’s Newt. I’m talking about Newt.”

 

“Oh,” I say. I guess that makes sense. “Oh. Okay. We’re not dating though?”

 

The Builder shakes his head and shrugs, letting out a breath as he begins to turn away. “Nevermind. I’m not even gettin’ into this. Just go see what that poor shank wants, alright?”

 

“...alright.” I agree, brow furrowed. Gally walks away and doesn’t look back. 

 

Newt has been working with the Track-hoes for the past few months, it’s easier on him and he prefers it to the other jobs now that he can’t run. We’ve fallen into a very...domestic routine. It’s not surprising that the other boys think we’re dating. We’re at an age where that’s all they wanna think about. Since there aren’t any girls here, they’re getting their drama from the few couples around. And by few, I mean  _ one _ . Adam and Sven haven’t formally announced it, but everyone knows they’re together. They aren’t very discreet -- and we’re in a place without locks. One too many have walked in on them together. 

 

Then there’s Henry, who flirts with anything that moves. I’m a little relieved that his feelings for me aren’t  _ serious. _ He’s definitely not thinking with his brain. Or at least, not the right one.

 

I make my way over to the fields, squinting against the glare of the sun. My skin, though tanned, was still pale compared to the other boys. Spending so much time in the shade of the Medhut had shielded me from unfortunate sun burns. Newt was pretty close to my level, actually. Despite being in the sun every day, almost all day, he didn’t tan very much. Oh, he certainly  _ burned _ \-- a lot of our aloe supplies had gone to him -- but the redness didn’t fade out into a very visible tan. 

 

His skin almost glows in the harsh sunlight. I spot him easily among the flourishing plants, trimming some grape vines with the machete he’s become fond of. He’s removed his shirt and tied it around his waist. Sweat-slicked hair clings to his ears and forehead, the usual golden shade darkened a deep bronze. 

 

The muscles of his arm and back flex as he hacks away at errant vines, beads of sweat dripping down the exposed, reddening skin. He looks focused, mouth pursed and brow furrowed. I’m almost loathe to interrupt, but standing around and staring is making my gut feel funny. Plus, Gally  _ did _ say Newt was asking for me. So he shouldn’t mind. It’s too late to walk back, my anxiety forbids it because people have already seen me walk over here. I know nobody will care if I just turn and walk, but the  _ idea _ of it….

 

“Newt.” My voice cracks. 

 

He stops cutting, arm with the machete lowering as he turns to me. With his free hand he wipes his forehead, offering me a tired grin. His shoulders are sunburned, the skin peeling. The bridge of his nose as well. I know it must feel uncomfortable -- sunburns always sting and make the skin feel tight -- but the color on his face is oddly endearing.

 

“Hey Eddie,” he says.

 

I smile back at him, feeling oddly shy. “Hey. What’dya need me for?” 

 

“Need you for?” Newt echoes, uncomprehending. “Uh, nothing?”

 

Oh. I blink, face screwing up in confusion. “But Gally said--”

 

“AH,” he interupts, voice sharp and breaking. His cheeks suddenly take on a sharper hue of crimson. “No, it’s --  _ bugger _ , he’s just messin’ around. Really, it’s nothing.”

 

“That’s not reassuring. Actually, it just makes me curious.”

 

Newt bites his lip. I don’t look at it.

 

“He jus’ overheard me talkin’ to Adam.” he begins, choosing his words carefully.

 

“Okay…” I mutter, glancing at the boy in question who’s a few meters away and dutifully pretending he can’t hear every word we’re saying. “What’s that gotta do with me?”

 

“Well.” the blonde coughs and clears his throat. “We were...talking about -- about you.”

 

Having people talk about me behind my back is terrifying to me. But when I look at Newt, when I  _ think _ about Newt, I know he’d never trash talk me. He’s too nice for that. 

 

“Ah. Good things I hope?” I still approach the subject cautiously, because that seed of paranoia and self-doubt sits heavy in my chest. Newt’s opinion of me had steadily been gaining more weight. 

 

“Very good things.” He replies, eyes flickering to Adam briefly. The other Track-hoe just whistles a made-up tune and shuffles a few feet further away in the most obvious attempt at being discreet. “Eddie -- ”

 

“Yeah?”

 

The blonde gives me a wry smile, thumbing the handle of his machete. “Nevermind,” he says, “Wasn’t important.”

 

_ It’s obviously important to you _ , I want to say, but I’m too nervous to broach the topic. I really wish I could grow a backbone in these situations. Instead, I offer a smile.

 

“If you say so.” He knows he can come to me when he’s ready to talk. 

 

There’s a lull in the conversation. The two of us stare at each other, Adam edging further and further away. The thing about Newt is that even in silence, it doesn’t feel awkward. We can sit together and not say a word and there isn’t the  _ need _ to break the quiet. But right now there’s something else between us. Something in the way Newt’s eyes move around my face.

 

I’m scared to find out what it is. I don’t have the slightest clue why. Newt could never scare me (as long as he wasn’t severely injured or dying). My fingers twitch. I breathe out. There’s no hand beside mine to grab, despite the strange temptation to do just that. Someone belongs there, next to me. My mystery person. They’d know what to do. I hope.

 

“I’m glad Gally sent you over,” Newt finally speaks up again, turning back to his work once the air becomes stifling. “I was beginning to miss you.”

 

“I missed you too.” I reply immediately. Probably a little too quickly if the amused glance he shoots over his shoulder is anything to go by. “Were you -- were you being sarcastic?”

 

“No.” he answers, the word feels like it’s balancing atop a fragile point. His movements slow. “I always miss you when you aren’t by my side, love.”

 

“Oh.” I swallow down the lump in my throat, shifting on my feet. My cheeks warm with the telltale sign of a blush. How Newt says words like that so freely and easily is beyond me. I could never say something so honest and fluent. My tongue is too clumsy for such niceties. “I thought  _ I _ was supposed to be the clingy girlfriend.”

 

Newt barks out a short laugh. “I think...it’s less clingy girlfriend, more  _ possessive boyfriend _ . At least, that’s what Minho says. Bloody shank.”

 

I can’t ignore the way my heart stutters in my chest. While severe possessiveness can be unhealthy and a sign of emotional abuse, for some reason -- I know Newt wouldn’t be like that. He’d be the hand on the small of your back, the arm slung around your shoulders, the steady glare at flirty strangers. My eyes flick to his hands. They’re broad and smudged with dirt, his fingers long and deceptively powerful. I know for a fact that his palms are rough and calloused, his fingernails uneven -- but they’re nice hands. Strong, big hands. 

 

My face burned even hotter at the thought of his hands mixed with the word  _ possessive _ . Suddenly I wondered how it would feel to have his hand against my back -- or my hip.

 

_ Why _ , I dazedly think,  _ Am I thinking about this? _

 

Thinking about Newt’s hands in my own and against my body was not very platonic. Especially since I’d been totally fine with his hands all over me while we laid in the hammock. Well, not  _ all _ over me. I’d felt them against my hips and my stomach and chest -- but I’d never actively  _ thought  _ about it. Not until he’d put it into words like  _ that _ . 

 

How old was I? Old enough and young enough to be thinking about touching and being touched in a monumental capacity. How embarrassing.

 

“Eddie?” Newt turns to me, a look of confusion on his face. He almost looks worried, going as far as to take a step in my direction.

 

A strangled noise leaves my throat. “Igottago--”

 

“What--” the blonde looks at me, bewildered by the jumbled words, but I only catch a glimpse as I’m already whirling away and definitely  _ not _ sprinting back to the medhut.

 

* * *

I forget my embarrassment long before I go to sleep that night. 

 

Justin is dead. 

 

When the Runners come in for the day, Minho shows up last, jaw set and skin clammy. He tells us that Justin fell, tripping and vaulting right over the edge of a ravine. The boy had fallen so far, Minho was certain he was dead. It must have been a gruesome image to witness -- though nothing could be as gruesome as what happened to Stephen. Minho couldn’t get down to him, and even if he’d found a way down there was no way to get the both of them up if Justin couldn’t move. 

 

No one blames Minho for leaving the body. It was better that Minho got back here before the doors closed, so we’d only lose one instead of two. I could tell, as could most others, that Minho had probably wanted to stay and find a way to pull Justin’s body up, just so we could at least bury him. But there hadn’t been enough time, and Justin was dead. Minho was not. 

 

The Runners would go in a group tomorrow to see if Justin was still there, and if they could use some of the rope supplies to retrieve him. 

 

The mood was somber. My own turmoil about my hormones disappeared entirely, and Newt seemed to have forgotten too. When we curled up together on the hammock, I faced him instead of letting him spoon me. It was a little easier to breathe when we were pressed chest to chest, my head tucked under his chin. I could inhale the scent of soap and sun and grass -- the scent of Newt -- and be comforted by the beat of his heart under my cheek.

 

Newt’s hands pressed against my back and cradled me to him. The very thing I’d freaked out over earlier now meant very little. I tried not to think about how I wasn’t crying. It made me feel guilty, like I wasn’t  _ sad _ enough. Justin deserved to be mourned. He deserved tears and he deserved life. But I couldn’t bring myself to cry.

 

I was too tired.

 

Even so, I didn’t sleep well at all. When the sun finally rises I slide out of the hammock eagerly, body wrought with exhausted tension. Newt sits up shortly after, while I’m slipping my shoes on.

 

“Eddie,” he begins, and I hear the rustling of him getting out of the hammock as well. “Love, please. Take a day off.”

 

“Can’t.” It doesn’t matter if my stomach is cramping and twisting, if my fingers tremble so hard it takes me three tries to tighten the strings of my shoes. It doesn’t matter. I have a job to do. We all do.

 

Newt groans lowly, sensing my stubbornness. He’s been exposed to the subtle tenacity I possess for too long. He really does know me better than anyone here, perhaps even more so than Clint and Jeff. 

 

I straighten. Immediately, a familiar chest presses against my back, Newt’s hands slipping around my hips like brands of fire as his arms fully encircle my abdomen. His chin dips to rest against my shoulder, his cheek pressed to my own. Reflexively, I grip his arms with my hands. I don’t try to remove them, instead I just clasp his forearms and relax against him. 

 

He breathes in, squeezing me briefly. “Please take it easy, at least.”

 

_ Cheater _ . My ability to deny him has been dwindling harshly in the last few months. Especially when he puncuates his requests with acts of soft, obvious affections. 

 

“Fine.” I bite out, petulant. 

 

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “This stubborn side of you is pretty cute.”

 

I splutter, jolting out of his arms with nervous energy. His laughter comes from his chest this time, a happy sound. I turn to him and shove his shoulder, red up to my ears. Making me blush seemed to amuse him exponentially. Words fail me.

 

“Breakfast?” he asks, smile cheeky and eyes twinkling. He holds out one of his hands, wiggling his fingers. 

 

I scowl at him halfheartedly and take it anyway. 

 

I’m not really mad. Recently Newt has become a little more flirty and bold, which doesn’t surprise me because he’s mid-teens and obviously settling into his sexuality. What does surprise me is how it makes me feel. He’s so laid back, I can’t tell if he’s being serious about his advances and comments or not and that stresses me out. Because I don’t know if I want him to be serious or not.

 

Which means a part of me is actually considering it. Considering  _ Newt _ . Romantically and sexually. 

 

I’m comfortable with him. I quite clearly trust and rely on him differently than I do the other boys in the Glade, but  _ what did that mean? _ Thinking about relationships made me shake and feel sick. I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t even consider it without feeling anxious. 

 

If Newt actually likes me, I’m not sure I can give him a positive answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I couldn’t deny the way he made my pulse flutter, I obviously found him physically attractive. But would that mean anything in the long run? By the time I was ready? Who knows. 

 

I should talk to someone about it. Opening up about my feelings was terrifying though, so the very thought just made my anxiety like, five times worse. Ugh. I immediately thought about approaching Clint and Jeff, but….Jeff wasn’t too interested in romantic feelings, and Clint wasn’t the best at giving advice. Or rather, he’d  _ want _ to give advice (and it would be awkward and bad) which wasn’t what I was really looking for. I need to vent. 

 

I wanted my mystery person. 

 

I’d have to settle for someone else.

 

Newt and I walked hand in hand to the Homestead, an occurrence that happened so often no one gave us a second glance. The comments about being boyfriends made a lot more sense the more I let myself really think about Newt and I’s relationship. We acted more openly affectionate than Sven and Adam did, and they were  _ actually _ dating.

 

Who could I talk to? My whiskey eyes glanced around the room once we entered, making our way to the table of breakfast food. As we stepped up to collect our plates, my gaze settled on one Glader that I knew would listen and not offer sugary words. Perfect.

 

* * *

“Gally,” I called, stopping the Builder in his tracks. 

 

It was some time after breakfast and everyone had gone off to their jobs. I’d managed to catch Gally before he made his way to his group, heart in my throat. 

 

I wring my hands nervously, shoulders drawing up under the intensity of his gaze. This seemed stupid now -- but one didn’t just  _ waste _ Gally’s time, and he wouldn’t make fun of me. He waits, the curved sharpness of his brows making even his patient, questioning expression a little bit angry.

 

“Can I talk to you….alone?” I blurt out, getting it out into the open as quickly as I can. 

 

Gally blinks at me, those tense brows drawing low over his eyes. He grunt and raises a single shoulder. “Sure. Deadheads.”

 

I grimace a little but follow as he moves towards the woods. As long as we don’t go in too deep I should be fine. I had no desire to visit the graves today. (Not when a new one would be added soon, with or without a body to bury.)

 

I stare at the back of his ankles as we walk, a few steps behind him. We don’t speak until we hit the treeline, dead leaves and twigs crunching beneath our feet. 

 

“What’aya need?” he asks, once we’re a few meters in. The forest is a whole ‘nother world, shady and buzzing with cicadas, a breeze shaking leaves from trees. 

 

“An ear.” 

 

“An...ear?” he squints.

 

“Someone to listen.” I elaborated.

 

Gally clears his throat. “And you can’t go to Newt?”

 

“It’s  _ about  _ Newt, actually. So no.” 

 

“Ah.” he says, not exactly looking uncomfortable just yet, but pretty close. 

 

“Sorry.” I apologize instinctively. “It’s just -- I feel like I’m missing a person. Someone I talk to. So I -- I just needed...I dunno. Someone to listen.”

 

“It’s fine.” the Builder finally says, after a short pause. “Just spit it out already.”

 

“I’m physically attracted to Newt.” It’s easier to admit than I thought it’d be. Maybe because Gally merely rolls his eyes and makes a sound similar to  _ Duh _ . Perhaps I’d been more obvious about it than I thought.

 

So it’s even easier still, once it’s obvious he’s paying attention and not judging, to spill out my feelings on the matter. Intimacy scares me. Opening up scares me. Newt not returning my attraction scares me. Newt  _ returning _ my attraction scares me. Newt wanting something  _ more _ scares me. I don't feel right. I don’t feel whole. I can’t focus on Newt, or  _ anyone _ , while I feel like this. Incomplete. I’m not ready for a relationship. I don’t  _ want _ a relationship. I don’t want things to change just yet.

 

“First off,” Gally starts, surprising me. “You’re the dumbest shank I know if you can’t see that Newt’s been pining after you for over a year.”

 

He doesn’t let me interrupt, leveling me with a look when I open my mouth. I shut it with a click.

 

“Second, stop.” Gally sighs, “Stop putting pressure on yourself. It’s annoying. No one’s expecting any of that, least of all Newt.  _ Nothing  _ has to change between you two. You’re creating stress all by yourself, slinthead.”

 

“So, what,” I stutter, “Just ignore it?”

 

“No,” he grunts, “Just let it  _ go _ . You’re thinking too much -- always stuck in your own head. If you have a crush on Newt or whatever, then just let it  _ happen _ . And don’t come to me for sappy klunk like this again.”

 

His tone is harsh, but not teasing or meant to humiliate. In fact, his gaze softens for a moment before he moves forward and brushes past me, heading back to the clearing. Something tells me he’d listen again despite his words.

 

“Thanks, Gally.” I murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. 

 

“Whatever.” he throws over his shoulder. “Stop freaking out.”

 

Talking to Gally is like getting struck. He hits you with the honest, brutal truth and cuts through all your words without a second thought. If he thinks it’s bullshit, he’ll tell you. That’s why I trust him when he says I’m overthinking. I wouldn’t doubt it, with the way I’ve spiraled into my thoughts before.

 

I follow him out of the woods a few minutes later. 

 

My chest feels a little lighter now that my thoughts are off my chest, but that hollow ache is still there. Not even opening up to someone else helped -- which makes me think it really  _ is _ this mystery person that I need. 

 

The mystery person that could be a figment of my imagination or a sign of my impending mental breakdown.  _ Get it together, Eddie. _ Dreams weren’t real.

 

I made my way past the fields, catching a glimpse of Newt hard at work. His bright hair was a beacon among the green, the bare skin of his shoulders bright red under the sun. He didn’t see me, focused intently on his work, and I didn’t try to draw his attention away. 

 

If Gally was right and Newt  _ did _ have feelings for me….then I didn’t know what I would do. Would he want to kiss? To declare our relationship? To have….well,  _ sex _ ? The very thought made me flush down to my toes. Definitely wasn’t ready for that. Nope.

 

Ugh. Here I was, overthinking again. Exactly what Gally told me  _ not _ to do. Like Newt would  _ ever _ pressure me into anything, he wasn’t that kind of guy. I believed that wholeheartedly. 

 

“Hey, Eddie.” Clint greets when I walk into the Medhut, nose deep in one of the medical journals I’d written. He liked to glance over the information every once in a while. It was humbling, to know that they trusted my meager knowledge so much.

 

“Hey.” I reply, smiling even though he’s not looking. “How’s Luke?”

 

“A disaster.” he mutters, nostrils flaring briefly. The Greenie was about as coordinated as Dmitri and had been made a Slopper alongside him.

 

“Health disaster or….” 

 

Clint shoots me a look, unimpressed. “ _ Human _ disaster. But healthy as anyone, far as I can tell.”

 

“Him ‘n Dmitri are a match made in heaven.” Jeff chips in, feet propped on his desk. 

 

“Aw, guys, don’t be too mean.” I drop into my own stool.

 

“Stop being so  _ nice _ ,” Jeff counters, snorting.

 

* * *

 

Like after every death, we adjust and move on. We don’t forget, but we certainly don’t let the grief control us. By the time a month or so passes, most of us are back to high spirits. Well -- as high as they can get while we’re trapped in a Maze. The Greenie after Luke was Scott. We threw him a party even though most of us were still reeling. 

 

Now, a new Greenie had come up today and we were in a much better place to party. He didn’t know his name yet -- not unusual. He was tall and weedy, towering even over Nick, with light brown hair and grayish blue eyes. 

 

I don’t think he appreciated the party that much. He was sulking in the corner, scowling at anyone who tried to approach. Luckily, he hadn’t acted physically aggressive, so we didn’t have reason to throw him in the slammer. No one asked him to join in on the fighting, probably because we didn’t trust him not to swing his fists. I myself had wrestled a few rounds, actually enjoying the exercise.

 

“How much have you been drinking?” I watch Newt, whose face is deep shadows and orange hues. He’s been nursing and refilling a jar of Gally’s brew for a while now.

 

“Uh,” he replies smartly, swaying on his feet. “What?”

 

“Newt.” I raise a brow, giving him a  _ Look _ .

 

He winces, alcohol loosening his features. As well as his tongue. “Oh nooooo, it’s the fashe.” he slurs.

 

...Face?

 

“You should stop while you’re ahead.” I wonder if I can snatch the glass from him before he spills it all over himself. “You’re gonna feel awful in the morning.”

 

“Why?” he cocks his head, cheeks flushed pink with drunkenness. “‘M gonna see  _ you _ .”

 

My lips quirk up involuntarily. “You’re seeing me right now.”

 

Newt’s lips part, eyes widening like I’ve told him the secrets of the world. “You’re right! Eddie, you’re righ’ ‘ere!”

 

Drunk people make me anxious, as hilarious as they can be. A lot of things make me anxious, now that I think about it. But it’s the unpredictability of inebriated people that worries me. At least it’s Newt.

 

I say that a lot too. 

 

_ At least it’s Newt _ . Everything's better when it’s Newt. 

 

“C’mon,” I say, stepping closer to him. “Gimme that before you drop it.”

 

Newt glances from my outstretched hand to the mason jar in his own hand. He gets distracted by the splashing of the amber liquid against the glass. 

 

“Newt.” I prompt, reaching out to brush my fingers against the jar. He shakes his head woozily and looks back at me.

 

“But I’m not done with it.” His brows furrow. “You can’t take it yet.”

 

“You’re drunk, Newt.” 

 

“ _ You’re _ drunk.” he slurs, moving to point but forgetting how to work his fingers so three of them jab gently into my collarbone instead of one. “Whoa.”

 

He rocks back and forth precariously, swaying dangerously close to me. I wrinkle my nose at the overwhelming scent of alcohol. Ick. I can’t stand that smell, and the taste is even worse. There’s no way we’re sharing a hammock tonight, not when he smells like a bar.

 

_ A bar. _ What’s that again? I have the definition in my head. Weird.

 

Newt unsteadily raises the glass, but instead of taking another sip he hovers it shakily beside my head. His dark eyes peer intently at me and the glass. 

 

“It’s’a same.” he mutters. 

 

I glance to the jar, seeing the gleam of amber-gold liquid within. I recall what Newt had once said about the color of my eyes, but I have to clarify. It  _ could _ just be the rambles of a drunk. “What, my eyes?”

 

“I’sso  _ beautiful. _ ”

 

Clearing my throat, I feel heat spread across my cheeks that has nothing to do with the force of the bonfire. I’m both flattered and uncomfortable, because while the words are nice -- Newt is  _ drunk _ . Quite obviously so.

 

“Eddie,” he breathes. I wrinkle my nose as the sharp tang of alcohol fills the air. The blonde sways closer and I reflexively hold up my hands to catch him, thinking he’s falling. He doesn’t. Instead he rests inches from me, head hanging low and jar of Gally’s brew now hovering over my shoulder. My palms press against his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart and the heat of his skin beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

 

“Newt.” I swallow, voice shaking nervously. “I think it’s time for you to get to bed.”

 

“Eddie,” he says again, gaze glassy and twitching over the features of my face. “You’re soooo beautiful, d’ya know that? Drives me bloody -- bloody, buggin’ bonkers.” 

 

A few snickers escape his mouth, face moving even closer to my own. I tense, shoulders hunching. My tongue is heavy in my mouth and I can feel my chest shaking with the force of my heartbeat. I move to step back, not willing to push him back even though I’m in the prime position to do so. His empty hand shoots forward, clamping down on my hip. It’s a heavy, hot weight against my skin, his thumb rubbing circles into the swell of my hip bone.

 

A squeak leaves my throat, I bite my lip. “Ne--”

 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he curses low under his breath. Those dark eyes of his are locked somewhere south of my nose. “‘M goin’ mad, Eddie. You’re drivin’ me  _ mad _ .”

 

“Listen,” I clear my throat, ignoring the way my heart had leapt into my throat at the expletive. Swearing shouldn’t sound so…. _so_ _nice_. Attractive. I’d even say _hot_ , you know, if I said things like that. I’m really trying to ignore everything he’s saying. It’s proving to be difficult. “You should drink some water. Lay down for a bit.”

 

“Lay down?” he mutters, still looking at my lips. It’s making me break out into a cold sweat. “With you?”

 

My mouth feels dry. “I don’t think so. You kinda stink.”

 

Newt doesn’t even seem to register the last half of my sentence. His mouth curves downward into a frown. “Then I don’t wanna.”

 

Ugh. I’m not equipped to deal with stuff like this -- with ridiculous, attractive,  _ drunk  _ boys who can’t take their eyes off my mouth. This is on a different level from the hugs and hand holding. This is nearing….some other territory that I still don’t want to acknowledge. 

 

_ Not just yet. Wait. Wait. I’m missing something. Incomplete. _

 

“You gotta.” I urge. “Please.”

 

Newt’s eyes darken. His tongue wets his lips and his sways even  _ closer _ , until our noses almost brush. “Again?”

 

“What?”

 

“Say it again.” his voice is still drunk and slurring, but it’s  _ low _ and sparks a strange heat in my gut.

 

“...you gotta?” I repeat, throat dry.

 

“Not tha’.” his voice drops even lower.

 

I suck in a breath, fingers trembling against his chest. “.....please?”

 

“Again.” He orders, voice deceptively strong and silky for a drunk teen. I feel my lungs freeze, unable to suck in any air.

 

I haven’t the slightest clue what’s happening, but I know this is beyond the bounds of friendship, or anything remotely platonic. Newt’s drunk. It’s not good to play along with the oddly charged requests of an intoxicated person.

 

“Please...Newt.”

 

So of course I said it again. What else could I do? I’d never thought about turning down Newt before, and it wasn’t like he was asking for anything  _ bad _ . 

 

Newt let out a deep, guttural groan before his chin dips and his nose brushes forcefully against my own. I jerk back -- or attempt to, Newt’s hand is still a vice on my hip. His lips clumsily bump against my own. I let out a shocked noise, his mouth smothering the sound. 

 

It’s so much a kiss as it is a drunken smush of skin against skin. Our teeth clack and the pressure isn’t pleasant and his lips taste like alcohol. My whole body tenses. 

 

Cold liquid splashes down my shoulder and back.

 

Startled, I let out a short yell and finally make use of my hands to shove Newt away. He lets out his own surprised breath and stumbles back, uncoordinated limbs folding beneath him. The blonde lands with an oof on the grass, now empty glass jar thumping to the ground beside him.

 

The overpowering scent of Gally’s brew fills my nose and I feel the sticky, cold sensation of it saturating my skin and clothes. I gag, face scrunching in displeasure.

 

“Hey, everything okay over here?” Minho asks, approaching us carefully. I notice a few of the other boys are looking over at us, our shocked yells likely drawing attention.

 

Newt blinks dazedly from the ground, mouth opening and closing. 

 

Minho looks from my tense and displeased face to Newt. “Uh…”

 

“I’m going to take a shower.” I finally say, grinding my teeth. “Get him to sober up.”

 

“You got it.” Minho nods, picking Newt up from off the ground. “Up you get, buddy.”

 

Incensed, I turn and make my way toward the bathroom. The kiss bothered me. The alcohol bothered me. I knew why the spilled drink got on my nerves, because I was sensitive to smells and hated Gally’s brew. (No one wanted a drink spilled on them.)

 

But I wasn’t sure why the kiss bothered me. Actually, that was a bit of a lie. You only ever got one first kiss, and while I didn’t mind that it was Newt, I minded that it was the result of drunken desire. It was bumping teeth and sour tastes and my nose smarted a bit -- in short, it was a pretty shitty kiss. And we weren’t even dating. He hadn’t even  _ asked _ . 

 

To a lot of people, kisses and stuff like that didn’t mean much. To me? It meant a lot. I wanted my first kiss to  _ mean _ something. I should have shoved him away earlier. I liked Newt. I did. But I didn’t want it. Not like that. 

 

I’d forgive him, of course. How could I not?

 

But first I needed a shower and to brush my teeth. Then I’d let him stew for night and ignore him a bit in the morning. Next time he wants to kiss me he better be sober and -- and … I dunno. Ask.  _ Mean it _ . He better mean it. Plus, he needed to make up for that crappy excuse for a kiss. You know, if he wanted to.

 

I kinda hoped he wanted to.

 

* * *

 

We still had our own hammocks. So when I returned after showering and changing, I slipped into my old one. Newt was already passed out on his -- the one we usually shared -- snoring away. Good. I didn’t wanna talk to him. 

 

I didn’t have the slightest clue as to what to say.

 

Which was fine. Because it was him who had some explaining to do. Like...what made him think it was a good idea to kiss me after drinking? Without giving me warning? Sure, I was attracted to him, but I was a very easily stressed person. I needed verbal communication. Words. Explanations. I wanted feelings out in the open before anything physical happened. I had a hard time opening up. A hard time with trust. Newt  _ knows _ that. 

 

If you don’t speak frankly to me then I’ll make assumptions. Kissing me like that without any reason? Definition of stressful.

 

It was the worst sleep of my life.

 

I finally just got up when the sun started rising. My eyes burned and stung, but I felt too wired to try any longer. So, feeling exhausted, I slipped from my hammock. Almost all the boys were still asleep, Newt included. He’d rolled over in his sleep, his back to me now. 

 

I slip on my shoes and make my way to the bathroom. I hadn’t had a sip a alcohol last night, but my head was pounding and my stomach wasn’t very happy with me either. Awesome. I love it when lack of sleep and anxiety manifests itself into physical ailments. 

 

I step up to the sink and splash some water on my face. It helps wake me up a little. Straightening, I stretch out my back until I feel it pop.

 

“Nice.”

 

I whirl around to see Minho, standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips. We watch each other for a moment, before he breathes in deeply and exhales while rocking on his feet.

 

“So…” he starts, mouth pursing. “Uh, how are you….doing?”

 

“Alright.” I respond shortly. Knowing that Newt and Minho are incredibly close, so he’s probably here on behalf of the blonde. 

 

“Right. That’s good.” he lets out another heavy sigh. “Ok, let me just get to the point. I saw what happened. You gotta know -- he’s sorry. He wouldn’t stop sayin’ it while I was getting him to bed.”

 

“I’d like to hear  _ him  _ say that, thanks.” 

 

Minho nods quickly, “Yeah, yeah, I get that. Totally. Just -- you’re not  _ crazy mad _ , are you? You do….like him, right?”

 

“It’s not about that, Minho.” I sigh, shaking my hands free of water droplets. It’s sweet that Minho is so worried about Newt. Or he’s eager to hear some gossip. Could be either, knowing the Runner. 

 

“Then what is it?” he prods, actually looking serious. 

 

“It’s about the fact that he was  _ drunk  _ and even if I do like him, he  _ forced  _ it on me. It was innocent enough, I get that. But I didn’t enjoy it.” With careful steps I approach Minho, brushing his shoulder as I make to move past him. “It may sound silly to you guys, but I don’t want somethin’ messy and -- and -- I just want….somethin’  _ real _ . Newt means too much to me, ya know? Losing him as a friend would destroy me.”

 

“Does he have a chance?” Minho calls, turning to watch me leave. 

 

“He didn’t  _ blow it _ , if that’s what you’re wondering.” I pause by the door, looking out to make sure no one else is listening. The last thing I want is for rumors to spread around the Glade about Newt and I. I don’t handle public teasing very well. “But he better plan on makin’ it up to me.”

 

Minho chuckles, “Ha, I don’t think he’s ever gonna touch a drop of Gally’s brew again.”

 

“Oh please,” I snort, “He likes that stuff too much.”

 

“Yeah,” Minho nods, “But he likes you more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EYYYYYY SO, we're coming up on the main storyline soon. probably in the next two chapters! sorry if you guys get annoyed by Eddie, he's a very anxious person and his anxiety has only been getting worse. the Glade isn't a good environment for kids, seriously, and he's kinda....faltering because the bond between him and Thomas is so strong that he's becoming more emotionally damaged the longer they're apart. but he's gonna do a lot of growing, i promise!


	12. Combine and Collapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long !!! aHH!! all the comments i got were really nice. i'm not planning on abandoning this fic anytime soon, i was just incredibly busy these last two months. my grampa passed away, i had finals, and i was trying to look for a job. it was a mess and this chapter did NOT want to write itself.

I don’t see Newt at breakfast. In fact, it’s another few hours before I finally see him up and awake for the first time that day. 

 

Lunch time is in about an hour. Clint and Jeff are slacking off, dozing on the medbeds. They’re still recovering from hangovers. There isn’t much to do today and I’m not the Keeper, so I don’t reprimand them. They’ve let me take naps before without saying anything, why should I?

 

“Eddie.”

 

I glance up from my desk, pen halting above the page of a journal. Newt stands in the doorway awkwardly, face pained and eyes bloodshot. He looks awful, pale and drawn and sickly. That’s what he gets for drinking so much -- he’s not a weighty kid, alcohol has a good chance of being more potent.

 

“Newt.” I respond. I’m calm and collected. I’ve totally got this. Nothing awkward going on at all.

 

“Can I talk to you?” he asks, voice low as to not wake the two sleeping Medjacks.

 

“You  _ are  _ talking to me.”

 

Newt grimaces, a hand coming up to rub at his temple. “Eddie, please…”

 

I sigh. Fine. I’m not very good at remaining petulant in the face of his discomfort anyway. “Alright. Sure. But let’s talk outside, okay?”

 

Newt nods, relief easy to see on his face despite the pinched expression. I stand up and follow him out, giving one last glance back at the two boys dozing. Hopefully they won’t even notice I’m gone -- not that they’d probably mind anyway.

 

We move silently towards the Deadheads. They seem to be the go-to location for private meetings. Newt’s wary and despondent countenance quickly saps my stubborn desire to stay ‘mad’. Looks like he has more sway over me than I’d thought. 

 

“Ok. Talk.” I say once we’ve stopped near the edge of the treeline. I cross my arms, trying not to give away the fact that I’ve already forgiven him hours ago. Truthfully, I didn’t even need an apology. I could already tell by the look on his face that Newt was very, very sorry.

 

“I wanted to say sorry,” he starts, jaw set with determination like he’s entering battle. “I k-kissed you ‘n it wasn’t right. I was pissed and you deserve better than that.”

 

Like a swelling tide, I could feel confidence fill my chest where it’d been empty before. A supporting hand had raised me up. It feels like an out-of-body experience. “You’re right,” I hear myself say, “I do. Everyone deserves better than a forced, drunken kiss.”

 

Newt swallows, wilting before my eyes. “I know.” he murmurs, demure.

 

“Do you?” I prompt, meeting his eyes even as they struggle to hold my own.

 

“Yes.” he nods jerkily, looking cowed by my stern demeanor. The strictness in my tone is unusual, and that must make him more attune to the words I’m saying. “I mean it, Eddie. I’m really, really bloody sorry. I was completely smashed but that’s no excuse for me t’ act like a total wanker.”

 

“Ok.”

 

Newt twitches, looking gobsmacked. “What?”

 

“I forgive you.” I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “Just don’t do it again.”

 

“That--” Newt pauses, looking stricken. He opens and closes his mouths few times and wrings his hands.

 

In the next moment I realized how that sounded. “I mean the drunk part of the kiss. Don’t do  _ that _ again.”

 

Ah. That was a little telling, wasn’t it? If I’d been reading the whole situation wrong, which at this point I doubted I was, then I’d just semi-exposed my feelings. It made my stomach drop to my feet.

 

“And the kiss part?” Newt asks, finally meeting my eyes with the shadow of his usual confidence. 

 

Come on, Eddie, speak your mind for once! 

 

“Um.” I mumble intelligently. “I guess, I mean….if you wanted….we could. Ya know. Yeah.”

 

Fluent. Eloquent. The picture of grace. Good job, Eddie. I despair internally at my verbal fumbling.  _ I’m  _ the one who wanted spoken confirmations and yet I couldn’t even put my own thoughts into words.

 

A trace of a smile makes its way onto Newt’s face. “I very much  _ want _ to kiss you, love. But only if  _ you  _ want to as well. Don’t wanna make the same mistake twice, yeah?”

 

_ Be brave. _

 

“I want to.” Squaring my shoulders, I tilt my head up. “I want to kiss you….”

 

“But?” Newt prompts, half an inch closer than he had been before. We’ve known each other so long he’s learned to recognize the subtle nuances in my language. 

 

“You’re my best friend.” I clear my throat, trying to stop the slight tremble in my voice. “I don’t wanna ruin that by -- by kissin’ ‘n stuff if that’s all it’s gonna be. You mean a lot to me, Newt. I couldn’t bear to lose you as a friend because we get physical ‘n it falls apart. I want--”

 

“Eddie, it’s not just physical. I fancy you.” Newt interrupts gently, once it’s obvious I’m working myself up. “You’re my best friend too, so it should be pretty clear that I like you for more than your looks.”

 

“Ah.” I blink, reeling.

 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Newt runs a hand through his fiery hair. “I think you’re bloody gorgeous and I could talk about the parts of you that physically attract me all day -- but it really is  _ more _ , love. You make me smile. You make me happy and that’s hard to be some days, in a place like this. Hell, you’ve basically wiped my arse and seen me at my worst yet not  _ once  _ did you ever look at me differently! And yeah, you just may be the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. But it was your personality that drew me in first.”

 

Newt takes a few steps forward, until he’s less than a foot away, his face soft and serious. My own is burning red and slack with shock. I’m struggling to believe his words, my own self-esteem isn’t exactly on par with Newt’s opinion of me. 

 

“I don’t just want somethin’ physical, Eddie. I want whatever you will give me -- I want you to be mine.” Newt licks his lips, taking in a shaky breath. “I don’t want anyone else holdin’ your hand, or sleeping next you, or being  _ close  _ to you the way I am.”

 

“You really are a possessive boyfriend.” I choke out, voice strangled with emotion.

 

“Maybe,” Newt laughs shortly, “Will that be okay?”

 

I take a second to look into his deep umber eyes and  _ think _ . He looks so earnest, back straight and chin up, hands trembling.  _ Take a leap of faith, Eddie _ . Trust that he’s not lying. Trust that he means it, that Newt  _ wants _ me.

 

“Yeah, I think it’d be okay.”

 

“You think?” Newt raises a brow, but his body sags like strings have been cut.

 

I roll my eyes. “ _ Yeah _ , okay, I’m fine being….boyfriends.” It sounds a little silly to my ears. “But just…”

 

“Take it slow?” Newt hedges, expression open.

 

I nod. “Yeah. That. I’m not ready for...stuff.”

 

Would I ever be? Maybe. I hoped so. Just thinking about being intimate made me sweat out of sheer stress. I didn’t feel good. Right.  _ Whole. _ How could I give myself to Newt when the entirety of me wasn’t even present?

 

Truth was, I couldn’t. At least he seemed to understand that. (Again, not that I think he’d ever try to pressure me into anything.)

 

“That’s alright, Eddie. Like I said, I’m good with whatever you want to give.”

 

“Ok.” I exhale deeply, clapping my hands together. “Cool. You should -- you should kiss me now.”

 

Newt shifted, face blank for all of two seconds before his eyes widened. Both of us were surprised by my boldness. I couldn’t even believe that the words had come out of my mouth. Yet….I  _ had _ wanted to fix that disastrous first kiss.

 

“I mean -- I don’t know how to kiss. So. Don’t expect anything great but, like, I guess it couldn’t be worse than last night’s, so….yeah.” I ramble, hands flailing as I speak. “I just really -- ”

 

“Love,” Newt whispers, inching forward. His eyes are dark with intent. “I don’t exactly have experience either. We’ll figure it out together.”

 

“Right, right.” I nod. “Yeah.”

 

Newt grins, soft and slow. His hand comes up and brushes a lock of hair by my temple, trailing down to cup my cheek and jaw. My pulse jumps and my breath catches. Something between us takes shape and solidifies. Everything, from the atmosphere to the gentleness of his movements, is far more comfortable than it was the night before. It’s a relief, to feel eagerness rather than a need to back away.

 

I don’t know what to do with my hands. When he gets close enough I take a leap and place them delicately on his hips. Newt leans in, both hands now framing my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. Our noses brush softly, heads tilting to figure out how to meet lips. 

 

It doesn’t exactly feel like anything special. Not at first. It’s a lot of awkward fumbling and pressing of mouths, puckered lips and noses digging into cheeks. But eventually we settle into a rhythm, one that lights a fire in my gut and makes me tighten my grip on his hips. I sigh against his moving lips and get a low groan in response. Newt’s right hand slips from my cheek and curls around my neck possessively, tilting my head up even further to press us together more firmly. Our teeth only clash twice. We keep our mouths closed for the most part, not including any tongue -- because for some reason I know that that’s a thing, despite never doing it.

 

Newt finally pulls back. It may have just been minutes or even hours, I can’t tell. Everything seems timeless. He presses one more soft kiss to my reddened mouth before straightening to his full height. 

 

“Not so bad for a first snog,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded and pupils blown. There’s a rosy flush on his cheeks and I can see every one of his bronze eyelashes.

 

I bite my bottom lip bashfully. It feels hot and swollen, the flesh more tender than I’ve ever felt it. Newt’s eyes flicker briefly to my mouth before meeting my eyes again.

 

“Definite improvement, I’d say.” I tease in response, leaning into the hand still on my face. The one on my neck slips off, trailing across my shoulder and down my arm.

 

“I don’t want this to be awkward.” the blonde says, clearing his throat. “Because I don’t feel awkward. I’m actually feelin’ brilliant.”

 

“Yeah?” I can’t help myself, I smile. I wonder if he’s feeling as nervous as I am. “I’m feeling pretty good too.”

 

* * *

 

Not much changes, if I’m being honest. We had already been acting like a couple, with the whole holding hands and sleeping in the same hammock thing -- now we just kissed too. Though, we didn’t do that as often as I thought we would. And we never did it where people could see. Something about having an audience made me uncomfortable. I did wonder, at times, if perhaps Newt did want to be more open. But he never said anything and always seemed perfectly happy stealing moments when no one was watching. Of course, our relationship status wasn’t a secret despite our careful PDA. No, Minho had made sure of that, oddly joyful about our relationship.

 

“Finally,” he’d exclaimed, smacking the both of us on the shoulder. “Almost lost hope for a second there.”

 

He’d taken the time to then detail  _ exactly  _ how smitten Newt had been with me for  _ over a year. _ I was mortified at my obliviousness. Especially when Newt himself, with flaming cheeks, told me it was true. He’d apparently been pining after me for some time. That made me feel awful, seeing as I’d only begun to have feelings for Newt quite recently. As far as first crushes went, I was pretty lucky. I’d only realized my own feelings in the last month or so, and they ended up being reciprocated almost immediately. With Newt, he’d been struggling with his own emotions and desires for a  _ long _ time. 

 

A year was definitely a long time. 

 

Christ, I’d all but friend-zoned him!  _ Verbally. _ I’m pretty sure I remember telling him he was a great  _ best friend _ and if that wasn’t the most cliche way to get a desire for strictly platonic feelings across than I don’t know what was. Obviously this wasn’t a rom-com and I hadn’t realized Newt’s feelings -- therefore I couldn’t exactly purposefully ‘let him down’ -- but it probably felt that I’d shut him down. I was kinda glad he didn’t take the opportunity to get over his feelings. If he’d attempted to, I wouldn’t blame him. 

 

Didn’t matter now, seeing as we were, for lack of a better term, ‘together’.

 

“Hey,” Newt greeted, lips curled in a soft smile.

 

I grinned back, cheeks flushing lightly, as they seemed to do often around him. “Hey.”

 

The sun had long since slipped behind the wall, the glow of the lanterns being the only source of light. I was still in the Medhut, having come in after dinner to clean up my desk area before going to bed. Newt waited against the doorway, arms crossed. It’d been another hot day, so his over-shirt was tied around his waist and his torso was clad only in a dirty green tank top. It showed off his arms, and them being crossed only enhanced the curves of his muscles and drew my traitorous eyes to the veins on his hands and forearms. I swallowed, tongue-tied, and looked away in embarrassment. Newt had always been in good shape, but as a Runner his legs had always been the most toned part of him. Now he used his arms more rigorously, building on the already muscular appearance. His shoulders had certainly broadened over the last few months. Newt wasn’t  _ bulky _ , per se, but no one could deny he looked strong. Had I not been worried about his balance, I’m pretty sure he could lift me with ease. A thought that really shouldn’t have been as appealing as I found it.

 

I myself wasn’t particularly large. Quite average, actually. Despite being a Med-jack I exercised pretty frequently, a routine I found oddly familiar. Or rather, my body found it familiar. I’d certainly come into the Maze with muscle mass, and I didn’t want to lose it. Play-fighting had also become a weird hobby of mine. I was good at it. I felt in my element, almost. Like I’d been made to fight and strategize. If anything, it was a connection to the  _ Before _ and therefore I clung to it. Newt hasn’t said anything about it, but I know that both the scars on my skin and my apparent fighting skills still worry him. Minho, being another who had witnessed my scarring, isn’t exactly vocal about it but I know they’ve probably talked amongst themselves. Really, it was strange how I hadn’t been asked very often about the state of my hands, even though the white lines of puckered skin were very obvious.

 

“You doin’ alrigh’?” Newt asks, voice quiet despite it only being the two of us here. He moves closer, arms dropping to his sides. 

 

“Of course,” I say, though it might not be true. “I’m fine.”

 

Newt looks at me with his dark, hooded eyes. It’s like he’s peering into my soul. If he knows I’m not being honest, he doesn’t mention it. “Good that.” he says instead, then leans forward and captures my mouth with his own.

 

I kiss back, reflexively gripping his tank top with one of my hands. Newt smells like dirt and grass and sweat. He tastes like apples and the greasy tang of pork. Dinner. When he pulls back he rests his forehead against my own for a moment before straightening. I see his throat bob as he swallows, mouth set in a sharp smile. The look in his eyes is heated, but he never pushes. Never asks for more. He’s waiting for me to give the okay. Something I’m not ready to do just yet. I don’t even know exactly what  _ more _ entails. We haven’t really talked about it.

 

“You sneak in here just for that?” I ask, hardly containing my smile.

 

“You bet,” he replies, rocking forward to press a quick, chaste kiss to my lips. 

 

Kissing is nice. A little odd, but mostly nice. In the back of my mind I’m constantly reminded that the mouth is one of the grossest, germiest places in the human body. All that fades away when Newt presses his lips to mine. We haven’t done much, just molded our lips together, brushing and pressing and occasionally keeping our mouths cracked open just the smallest bit. No tongue. Not yet. I don’t even think Newt knows that’s a  _ thing _ . I’m too embarrassed to consider broaching the subject just yet. Plus, kisses like that were….different. Heavier.  _ Hotter. _ Probably not the best if we wanted to hold back for a bit.

 

Anyway, we’ve gotten better at it -- kissing, that is. It’s less awkward now. We’ve figured out where to put our noses, how to move our lips so it feels nice instead of weird. It’s certainly an experience, figuring this out with Newt. Less embarrassing for one, since neither of us know what we’re doing. My worst fear has to be making a mistake and being teased about it. I know Newt would never, especially since he’s just as clueless as me. But still. Anxiety.  _ Ha. _

 

“You’re insatiable.” I mutter, but not unkindly. In fact, I’m more amused than anything.

 

Newt’s answering grin is sly, his hand on my elbow and his thumb tracing circles against my skin. “You like it. You  _ fancy _ me.”

 

I roll my eyes at his smug, happy tone. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

 

“Too late.”

 

* * *

 

“Did’ya notice,” Minho spits out a few seeds after biting too deeply into an apple. “That you always understand what Newt is saying?”

 

Pausing halfway into my seat, I raise my eyebrows at the other boy. “Uh, he’s speakin’ english….why wouldn’t I?”

 

Lunchtime is usually when Newt and I squirrel away into the Medhut, at least recently, but I thought it would be good to socialize with our other friends again. Even if I wasn’t very extroverted, I still cherished the time I had with them and didn’t want one of those relationships that consumed every aspect of my life. Newt seemed to agree, confiding that he actually missed talking to some of his friends during mealtime, even if he didn’t mind spending them all with just me. He’s too sweet, really. 

 

“Well, I know  _ that _ ,” Minho says, huffing and squinting against the bright glare of the sun. We’d moved mealtime to outside the Homestead now that there were over forty of us. “But I mean -- he says these funny words sometimes, ya know? But you never seemed to be confused like the rest of us.”

 

That was true. I’d never questioned why Newt said words like  _ bloody, wanker, shite, _ or a plethora of others that had the other boys blinking in confusion. I even knew that when Newt said ‘mad’, he meant  _ crazy, _ not angry. Wherever Newt had come from, I was familiar with the words. Not enough to have a voice that sounded like his, or to even use the words myself. But I knew….I knew enough to  _ understand _ . Meaning I’d probably been familiar with people like Newt  _ Before _ . 

 

“What brought this on?” I ask, furrowing my brows and picking at the slice of bread on my plate.

 

“Dunno.” Minho shrugs. “Always been curious about it. Had a lot of time to think lately.”  _ While running, _ he doesn’t say, but I hear it anyway.

 

“Well, I don’t have an answer for ya. Maybe I just got used to it.” That’s a lie, because when I think about it, I’ve never had to ask Newt exactly what any of his words meant.

 

Minho eyes me with a disbelieving look, but doesn’t comment on the truthfulness of my statement. “Uh huh.” Is all he says.

 

“Maybe I knew him...before.” I murmur, looking down at my food. I didn’t like thinking too much about who I might be missing from  _ Before _ , if it wasn’t my mystery person. It was painful to think I’d possibly left people behind who might miss me. “Or someone who talked like him.”

 

“Maybe.” the other boy nods. “Do you think there’s more people out there who talk like him though?”

 

“Of course,” I say immediately. “People from different places sound different, Newt’s just from somewhere else.” 

 

Minho is quiet for a moment. “Wouldn’t know.”

 

“....sorry.” Reflexively, I apologize. “I don’t know why I said that. I just...feel like that’s what it is…”

 

“Relax. You’re probably right,” the Runner shakes his head. “You  _ are _ the smartest of us, after all.”

 

“What -- no,” I deny immediately. I certainly don’t feel smart, and that also seems like a lot of pressure. “I’m definitely not.”

 

“Shut  _ up,  _ Bambi.” the teen says, knocking his shoulder against my own. “You always sell yourself short.”

 

“Are we talking about Eddie’s poor habits?” Newt chimes in, plate in hand as he approaches.

 

I scowl at him half-heartedly. He merely shoots me a cheeky grin as he shoves himself down into the free space beside me.

 

“For someone so bloody brilliant and gorgeous and--”

 

“Alight,” Minho interrupts, mock disgusted. “Quit bein’ gross, slinthead.”

 

Newt makes a face, “Bugger off, you twat.”

 

“See!” the Runner exclaims, meeting my eyes indignantly and pointing at the blonde. “What does that even really  _ mean!? _ ”

 

I can’t help it, I laugh. There’s something amusing about the banter between Newt and Minho. They’ve been friends for so long and it really shows in the way they interact. It’s no surprise the Greenies are always scared of a lot of the boys who’ve been here the longest. They acted different.  _ Close _ , like a clique that was impossible to penetrate. If there was a ‘popular’ squad then they’d be in it. I guess I was just lucky enough to catch their eye. Or Newt’s eye, actually. I blushed a little at my own thoughts.

 

Once I get my laughter under control I answer Minho’s question. “Pretty sure a rough translation would be ‘go away, you shank’.” 

 

“Wow, rude.” Minho snarks. “I was here  _ first _ , for your information. Why don’t  _ you _ ‘bugger off’!”

 

The three of us are quiet for a beat.

 

Newt snorts, “Don’t ever say that again.”

 

Minho nods solemnly, “Yep.”

 

* * *

 

Abe dies. 

 

He was a builder and he died quite instantly in the midst of assembling a new part of the Canopy. It hadn’t been anyone’s fault, but I knew that Gally blamed himself. He was the Keeper and one of his own had died under his watch.

 

“Eddie, please.” he’d muttered with more emotion than I’d ever heard him use. It’d made my skin crawl….

 

Because when I knelt down to take his pulse, I could already tell that Abe was dead. His eyes were half open and glassy. His bowels had relaxed upon death, as they always did. No one paid attention to that though, it didn’t matter. Abe’s head was matted with dark blood, a pool of it seeping into the dirt around him. He’d been beaned in head by a falling plank. It looks like it’d had a nail in it -- and had struck the sensitive spot of his temple. Definitely, and unfortunately, dead before I’d even arrived.

 

“I’m sorry,” I say, sighing deeply. Clint helps me up. I have blood staining my pants. “It looks like he died almost instantly.”

 

As much as I wish I could, I can’t bring people back to life. 

 

Billy and Jackson wander over, faces solemn. They’re the ones who take it from here. I hate the fact that we’ll have another grave in the Deadheads. And yet I feel more tired and numb than sad. I can’t look at Gally. I don’t think he’ll be mad. Not at  _ me _ specifically. It’s quite obvious there wasn’t anything to be done, but I didn’t wanna see the look in his eye. I can’t look at Ben or Doug either. Abe hadn’t even been here long, just a few months. I didn’t know him as well as the Builders did and as mean as it sounds, I didn’t feel as affected by it. 

 

Don’t get me wrong, it was still awful and horrible and I’d give anything to turn back time and bring him back, but I….felt different. Death was….different. Inevitable. I was beginning to accept that. Of course, losing someone like Newt, Clint, Jeff or Minho might wreck me. 

 

“Damn.” Clint muttered, following me as we made our way back to the medhut. 

 

“Take a shower.” Jeff said suddenly, stopping me before I entered. “You’re covered in blood.”

 

‘Covered’ was an exaggeration. My hands and pants were smeared with it and that was all. Still, I saw his point. It made me sick to see Abe’s blood on my clothes. I nodded and didn’t say a word, heading off towards the laundry room to pick up a change of clothes. 

 

A few minutes later I was in the shower, letting the cool water run over my skin and scrubbing the blood from my hands. The water at my feet turned pink, swirling down the drain. The fact that there  _ were _ drains was weird. Where did all the liquid go? I’ve always been curious about the Glade and its inner workings, but lately it’s been on my mind more often than not. It felt like the longer I stayed here, the more tired and agitated I got. I itched to  _ do _ something.

 

But what could I do? Nothing. Aggressively, I scrubbed at my skin. Can’t bring back the dead, can’t find a way out of the maze…

 

I let out an angry snarl, soap turning into a misshapen lump under my grip. It takes a conscious effort not to whip it as hard as I can at the wall. It’s soap, so it wouldn’t do much damage, but outward displays of aggression have never been my thing. Instead I tremble, rage coursing through me stronger than it ever has before. There’s a twin dragon inside me. Two points of anger, feeding off each other.

 

For a few minutes I allow myself to cool off under the lukewarm spray, taking deep breaths. I release the soap from my death grip, eying the lump dispassionately. With a sigh I wash away the suds and tuck the soap back in my container before shutting the water off. The blood is all gone anyway. I stand for a moment, dripping wet in the silence. I’m so tired.

 

I tug my towel off the stall wall and drape it over my head, lazily drying my hair. No matter how much sleep I get I can’t seem to feel fully rested. It’s a feeling that’s been haunting me for the past week, progressively getting worse. 

 

“Eddie, you in here?” I hear Newt call, accented voice staying by the doorway. I peer up, dropping the towel around my neck. I poke my head out from around the stall, making sure to keep my body hidden. While I was already modest and self-conscious, it was now a much bigger deal when it concerned  _ Newt _ seeing me in the nude. A year ago? It hadn’t phased me too much. Now? The very idea was mortifying on multiple levels. Was it too cliche to say  _ my body isn’t ready? _

 

Probably.

 

“Yep.” I reply, even though the mere presence of my head poking out had confirmed his question.

 

Newt crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, not moving from his spot and respecting my privacy. “Alrigh’ then?”

 

Ducking back inside the stall, I proceed to get dressed. “I guess.” I answer, shrugging my shoulders even though he can’t see them. 

 

“You guess?” He questions, voice echoing in the empty bathroom. 

 

“Newt,” I sigh, not in the mood to talk when I can barely understand my own emotions. “I’m fine.”

 

It’s silent for a moment. I can almost picture the contemplative expression on his face, I’ve seen it often enough. ( His face is one I’ve known for as long as I can remember, of course I know all his expressions. ) 

 

“Doesn’t sound too fine.” is what he settles on.

 

I slip my shirt over my head, a scowl settling on my lips. “ _ Newt. _ ” 

 

“ _ Eddie. _ ” he matches my scolding tone, stubborn at the worst moment. Who am I kidding, he’s always been stubborn when it comes to stuff like this. But today I just want to be alone with my own thoughts. 

 

Fully dressed, I step out from the cover of the stall, towel slung over one shoulder and bloody clothes in one hand. “Seriously. Not in the mood.”

 

Newt’s face in unreadable as I approach, not moving from his spot by the door. “You’ve not exactly been open before,” he begins, “But you’re more closed off than usual.”

 

“Christ, Newt!” I exclaim, “Give me a minute to breathe, will ya?”

 

The blond’s head jerks back, startled. His dark eyes reflect his shock at my sharp tone. Immediately, I feel regret. I don’t snap. That’s not like me. 

 

“Sorry. I’m -- I’m sorry.” I mutter, gaze sliding to the side. “I just...need some alone time. For a little bit.”

 

The thing about me is that I  _ like  _ being alone and the quiet. I only have so much tolerance for social situations outside of my medjack duties. I really liked Newt, I did. Both as a best friend and as a boyfriend. But lately we’d been spending so much time together I was starting to feel smothered and wrought out. With whatever was going on inside me, combined with this -- I felt like I was spread too thin. I needed time to recharge. 

 

“Yeah, alright.” Newt nods and takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes for a brief second before snapping them open and turning away. I watch him as he walks out of the bathroom, conflicted. It doesn’t look like he’s mad, but I’d hate to think I’d hurt his feelings. It’s not him, really. Not to be cliche or anything -- but it really is  _ me _ . It’s just how I am. And the past hour has been  _ stressful _ , to say the least. I’d always sought his comfort before, so he would have expected it -- not my anger. 

 

“Ugh, good going Ed.” I mutter to myself, running the towel one last time through my dark locks before stepping out into the sun. 

 

* * *

 

The next two Greenies were Alec, then Jordan. A Slicer and Track-hoe, respectively. My mood only worsened. If I wasn’t in the medhut, I took to spending time alone. Sleep didn’t come easy. Most nights I laid awake in Newt’s arms until the early hours of the morning, only managing a few measly hours of  _ actual _ sleep. My body protested the lack of snooze time, gut churning and recoiling at the thought of food more often than not and my head pounding. I was exhausted but I couldn’t sleep. Deep, bruise-like circles decorated the skin below my eyes and in spite of the furious sun I seemed to grow paler. 

 

It almost felt like I was getting sick. Newt never left me alone even when I wanted it. What made it better was the fact that he wouldn’t speak. I realized my own symptoms seemed to mirror his own before his...incident, but it wasn’t that I wanted to kill myself. It was like my body was deteriorating and there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. It was happening whether I wanted it to or not. 

 

Having a headache made conversation hard and the lack of sleep made it even more difficult to pay attention in the first place. I couldn’t. And people noticed. But the more they asked the more annoyed I got and the more painful my symptoms seemed to get. Newt did a lot of damage control.

 

I had good days, though. Where I felt well enough to talk with him or some others for hours. It would most times be followed by a week of silence, however. One step forward, two steps back and all that.

 

“Eat something.” Newt didn’t plead, but it was a little more than just asking. He dropped a plate on my desk, filled with a small portion of food. He knew I likely wouldn’t have the stomach for much more. For the past few weeks I’d been managing on one or two meals a day. Every morning when I woke it was to awful nausea and acid reflux, preventing me from being able to stand breakfast. 

 

It was past lunch now, and I’d yet to eat today.

 

“Shouldn’t you be working?” I ask, eyes moving briefly from the shelves of medicine before me to where the food on my desk was. Taking stock is hard when you keep losing focus and restarting. Even standing I felt like I could fall asleep. Yet I didn’t. Instead I remained hovering on the verge, rocking on my feet.

 

“Listen, when I -- when I got injured, you told me you’d never leave me.” Newt’s voice brings me out of the fog that had settled over my mind. “You’re not--”

 

“No, no, Newt.” I breathe, turning towards him finally and stumbling in his direction. He meets me halfway, hands coming up to rest on my shoulders and steady me. “It’s not that. Not at all.”

 

He stares into my tired eyes for a long moment, searching. Our noses brush. “Ok,” he says. “Then what is it?”

 

“I just…” It takes a lot of effort to maintain eye contact, “I haven’t been feeling well lately.”

 

“Obviously,” Newt mutters, a brow raised. My appearance had slowly been getting more sickly.

 

“No, it’s….it’s like I’m sick?” Not in the normal way. I don’t have a fever or a sore throat, but my head aches and my body is sore. “Something just feels wrong.”

 

Newt brushes a knuckle against my cheekbone. “Then you need to rest until you’re better. Can’t have our top doc gettin’ too sick.”

 

It’s more than that. This has been mounting for weeks. Resting doesn’t seem to be making any difference. There’s a lot of different, incurable diseases that I’ve been thinking of, scaring myself. I don’t know if it’s one of those or something else. I don’t know what’s happening to me at all.

 

“Yeah, you’re right.” I say, instead of voicing my fears and insecurities. “I just feel bad leavin’ everything to Clint ‘n Jeff.”

 

“Eddie,” Newt laughs, “I think you can take a few days off if you’re sick. You’re as human as the rest of us.” he pulls back a little, grasping my arms gently. “Now c’mon, eat a little bit, yeah?”

 

“Fine,” I draw out the word, smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. Newt gifts me with a boyish grin he’s knows I can’t resist. Rocking up on my toes I press a chaste kiss to his mouth. He hesitates only for a moment, caught off-guard, before dipping forward when I pull back to kiss me a little more firmly. His hands blaze trails of fire down my arms, slipping to my waist and wrapping around me. One palm is pressed tight to my lower back, forcing me to arch into him. I gasp against his lips and he swallows the noise greedily.

 

I bring my hands up to bury in his hair, eagerly giving in to my obsession with his fluffy, bronze-gold locks. I feel more than hear a rumble in his chest as I scratch my fingers along his scalp and the back of his neck. Newt pushes forward a little more, making me rely on his arms around me to keep my balance. The ease in which he holds me sends a spike of heat down my spine. 

 

“Whoa!”

 

We pull apart quickly, Newt’s hands still resting on my hips when we straighten up. Clint stands in the doorway, looking bashful and guilty. His eyes flicker around the room and don’t settle on us.

 

“Sorry, uh, I didn’t -- ” he clears his throat and shakes himself, finally meeting our eyes and pointing a stern finger at us. “Actually, no, I’m the Keeper here -- there’s no hanky-panky in the medhut, you two!”

 

Newt snorts, sucking his lips between his teeth for a moment. With a shake of his head and a grin he releases me. “Yeah, yeah, I hear ya.” he gives me a wink as he begins to leave, pausing only to speak to Clint. “Jus’ make sure he eats that whole plate. He said he’s been feelin’ ill.”

 

The Keeper glances to my desk, where the food lays innocent and uneaten, then to me. Looking at me with a decidedly unimpressed stare, he nods. “Yeah, you got it. I’ll watch him.”

 

“I’m right here,” I grumble.

 

“We’ll include you in the conversation when you can take care of yourself, slinthead.” Clint retorts, moving over to my desk and tapping the surface with a finger. “Now get over here and eat, you’ve been lookin’ too thin lately.”

 

“Sure, mom.” 

 

Clint rolls his eyes at my petulance, tapping the desk more firmly. I make my way over and plop onto my stool. My friend watches me like a hawk, waiting until I bring some bread to my mouth and start chewing before he relaxes a little, a satisfied look in his eye. Clint trudges over to his own desk, starting on his work while giving me a glance every once in a while.

 

Dutifully, I eat the whole plate. I’m not very hungry, but it’s weird -- I don’t feel full either. There’s no change in my gut, like I didn’t eat anything at all. My headache, at least, recedes a little. It’s a relief, temporary as it’ll probably be.

 

Whatever is happening, hopefully it’ll end soon. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

I try to be better after that. I rest more. I try to talk more. It doesn’t help. Progressively, I can feel myself getting weaker and weaker. No matter what I do, nothing improves. My whole body seems to have given up despite my own protests. It’s impossible to hide my waning strength, especially since it presents itself in physical symptoms.

 

It’s still manageable though. For the most part. I get up everyday and do my job; I eat some, I take it easy. Clint and Jeff fuss over me in their own, annoyingly caring way. And Newt….Newt deals with it. 

 

“Wake up, love.” 

 

His voice and his hands rouse me from sleep. I gasp fearfully, hair slick with sweat and hands trembling. This is the third violent nightmare I’ve had this week. 

 

“It’s ok,” Newt murmurs, running a hand down my trembling cheek. I can’t even remember what the nightmare was about. Just blackness -- and the ever-growing sense of dread and loneliness. Even with Newt right beside me, sharing his body heat and touching my skin, I feel alone. Empty. I feel cold but sweat drips down my back and neck. Breathing out harshly, I rest a hand on my chest above my heart. 

 

“No,” I murmur, still trying to come out of the weird daze of half-sleep. “It’s not okay. It’s  _ wrong. _ ”

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, shifting up a little. He sounds concerned. Probably looks it too, but I can’t manage to focus on his face. “Eddie, what’s wrong?”

 

“Everything.” A rush of sadness and longing threatens to overwhelm me. There’s no place in the Glade with water high enough to drown in, but I know that there’s such a thing as drowning. There’s such a thing as an ocean. And right now, I feel like I’m in the middle of the sea being battered by waves. The riptide is eagerly trying to pull me under, into the unfathomable depths. 

 

“Love, you’re really startin’ t’ freak me out here,” a hand shakes my shoulder and I finally focus on Newt’s worried brown eyes. They’re pretty, even in the dim light when they look black. Everything about him is pretty. I stare, my own gaze wide and shaky.

 

The words slip past my lips like they have so many times before, “Something’s missing.”

 

“Right, okay,” he shakes his head, “Maybe you should take the day off in the mornin’.”

 

I didn’t respond. I can’t bring myself to care about events happening hours from now. Instead, I close my eyes. Sleep will likely elude me for the rest of the night, but I’d rather fake going back to sleep than stay up and talk to Newt right now. The ex-Runner sighs, settling back down. I listen to the sounds of him getting comfortable, and then to the soft puffs of his breath. 

 

He probably thinks I’m crazy, with the way I’ve been lately. Maybe I am. I’ve been contemplating it for a while now. That voice in my head so many months ago and the weird phantom feelings -- they could easily be figments of my imagination. Perhaps he’d believed me at first, but now….well, I wouldn’t fault him for thinking I’ve finally lost it.

 

But if I wasn’t crazy and there really was someone out there….who could what? Speak with me in my head? No, I was most certainly crazy.

 

Still...I can’t help but wonder.

 

_ Hello? _ I thought, trying to project the word as much as possible. (As if that makes any sense whatsoever. )  _ Is anyone there? _

 

I wait a few moments. All I hear is the sounds of the Glade and my own thoughts.

 

_ Stupid…. _ I sigh, mouth twisting into a frown.  _ You really are just crazy. _

 

 

* * *

 

“You don’t look good, Eddie. I’m not gonna lie.” Clint shook his head, Jeff a stalwart presence behind him.

 

“I realize.” I ground out, tired of people commenting on my faltering appearance. “It’s all anyone seems to mention these days.”

 

“We’re just worried,” Jeff says. 

 

_ Worried _ . Everyone’s ‘just worried’. They’re all  _ so _ concerned. One can only handle so many well-wishes and babying before they snap. And I was very close to doing so.  _ No _ , there was no change.  _ No, _ I haven’t been feeling better. But I could still work. I could still go about my day just like the rest of them. 

 

“Sure. I get that.” I did. So I bit my cheek harshly to stop myself from snapping. My temper (which I hadn’t even really  _ had _ before) was very fragile these past few weeks. It didn’t help that by now I pretty much considered myself crazy. That subtle rage in my gut has to belong to me, not some mystery person. That had been silly to assume. I don’t know what I really have to be angry about, but it  _ has _ to be mine.  _ It has to be. _

 

“But can you guys lay off? I’ll tell you if anything changes, you don’t have to keep asking.” It was something Newt had picked up pretty quickly. 

 

I’ve been snapping at him more often than not. I hate it. I think he can tell how regretful I feel, but it’s not right for him to be so forgiving. He doesn’t deserve that kind of abuse. And it really  _ is _ abuse. My failing body doesn’t give me the right to take out my anger on him in any manner. Of course, when I broke down one day and told him my thoughts, he merely let me cry on his shoulder and told me it didn’t matter. He’s too good for me and he doesn’t even know it. (More like he won’t admit or acknowledge it.)

 

“Whatever man.” Jeff huffs, rolling his eyes. My attitude is probably grating on his nerves. Clint just sighs and shrugs, the calmer of the two. 

 

“Just...take it easy.” he says, nudging Jeff to get back to work. “The new Greenie should be coming up any minute.”

 

I don’t reply verbally, nodding jerkily instead. The initial anger I feel at his comment I repress. Too many people had been telling me to ‘take it easy’. I  _ was  _ taking it easy. I hadn’t done anything strenuous for close to three months now. 

 

My grip on my pencil tightens, the wooden utensil creaking. I exhale noisily, staring with unseeing eyes at the notebook in front of me. I read the passage on the page three times before the contents register, my free hand coming up to rub at my throbbing temple. It’s so hard to focus -- it’s almost a relief when the the Greenie alarm rings out. 

 

Scratch that -- it’s agony. I groan heavily when the sound pierces my pulsating brain. Clint and Jeff pause momentarily before heading out, Clint dropping a hand on my shoulder. I glance at them as they leave, gritting my teeth and pushing myself to my feet. Wincing with every step, I make to follow after them. The clearing is steadily filling with boys, all of them eager to see the new Greenie and to get new supplies. The novelty of a new boy has long since worn off, harsh as it was to say. I was more interested in the materials we got than the new mouth to feed. 

 

The alarm stopped, leaving behind a ringing silence. No -- not silence. It took a moment for my ears to adjust but I could hear it. Crying. It sounded young -- younger than usual. The boys near the edge of the Box exchanged glances, some bewildered, others amused. Nick and Gally yanked the doors to the Box open. Boys pushed in close to peer inside. 

 

The crying was clearer now -- great, hysterical sobs. Nick jerked back a little, mouth agape. 

 

“It’s a shuck kid!” he exclaimed, dark eyes wide with shock. 

 

Thing is, we were all kids when we came up. Still were. But we hadn’t had a boy younger than, say,  _ fifteen _ , in a long while. By the look on Nick’s face, this kid was even younger than that. I stepped forward, growing concerned when the crying took on a terrified edge.

 

“C’mon, get up.” Gally grumbled, jumping into the Box. I heard clanging and a short yell before a figure was tossed up. It was a young boy, red face messy with snot and tears. He couldn’t be older than twelve, with a pudgy face and body. He wore a pair of long shorts and a white tee-shirt. 

 

The Gladers standing around either laughed or looked on in shock.

 

“Looks like he klunked himself!” Stan gaped, devolving into chuckles. 

 

The boy looked around wildly, face turning crimson with more than just the force of his tears. I scowled at the teasing; this kid didn’t deserve to be humiliated, especially seeing as we all went through a freak-out phase. (Some worse than others.) He was so young...we should be looking out for him, not pushing him down.

 

Shooting some of the laughing boys a glare, I stepped forward until I was just before the Greenie. He looked up in fear when I crouched down to his level. With a soft smile, I try my best to look as comforting as possible despite my worn-out appearance. Hopefully my sickly pallor wouldn’t freak him out even more. He already looked to be on the verge of a breakdown.

 

“Hey kid,” His lip wobbled as I spoke, sniffing heavily. “Are you alright? Gally didn’t hurt ya, did he?”

 

He rubbed frantically at his eyes, coughing. “I--I don’t---” he heaved, another loud sob escaping him.

 

“Whoa, whoa,” I held up a hand in what I hoped was a placating manner. “It’s alright, just take a deep breath and calm down. We’ve got time.”

 

The kid took a deep breath, his body shuddering. He rocked back onto his haunches and pressed his hands to his face. More than anything I wanted to help him, but the sight of his tears made me very uncomfortable. I’m a full believer in the idea that boys can cry whenever they want -- it’s not a girly thing at all -- but no one really cried around here. The only tears I ever saw were tears of  _ pain _ . Which, as weird as it sounds, were easier to deal with than emotional ones. 

 

When I glanced around at the other Gladers, they’d already moved on to start unpacking the box while shooting the new greenie various looks. I glared whenever I met the eyes of a boy with derision on his face. I wouldn’t tolerate bullying. 

 

“Where am I? Where’s my mom?” 

 

Startled, I return my gaze to the pudgy kid. He stares at me with red-rimmed, watery eyes. Brown, curly hair frames his splotchy face, sticking up in every direction. He looks so impossibly young. Hatred towards whoever put us here suddenly hits me like a truck, burning low and potent in my gut. There’s a brief flare -- whoever is on the other side, or my own twisted mind, agrees with me.

 

“Your mom?” The word is foreign on my tongue. I know what a mother is, but to tell you the truth I haven’t thought of my mom and dad for a long, long time. Why would I? I can’t remember them, and none of the boys here really wanted to consider the thought of family left behind. “You remember your mom?”

 

The boy hiccups, his nose scrunching. He looks like he’s gonna cry again. “I can’t r-remember any-anything!”

 

Natural instinct, then. To call for your mother. I winced in sympathy. He really was the youngest kid sent up here -- even  _ I _ had been older when I first arrived. 

 

“Yeah, it’s the same for all of us. Listen, you’re not alone here and no one’s gonna lay a hand on you. We’re in the same boat. What’s happening to you happened to all of us.” My knees were starting to ache in this position. I held out a hand out for him to take, schooling my expression into something kind. He took a moment to stare at my offered hand, eyes blank as he processed the action. After a few long seconds he slipped his smaller one into my own and I repressed a grimace. His was damp with tears and snot. Pulling the both of us to our feet, I blinked when his grip only tightened. Okay then. The kid’s knees were nearly knocking together with the force of his fearful trembling. I shoved down any of my residue discomfort and focused on making him calm.

 

“Let’s get you a little cleaned up, yeah?” I offered softly, taking a few steps towards the bathroom. “Then you can ask whatever questions you want.”

 

The boy merely nodded, still trying to control his breathing and slow his tears. The hand that wasn’t in mine scrubbed frantically at his eyes. I didn’t comment on his state, not wanting to embarrass him any further. The other boys gave us a wide berth, none of them having any clue what to do with a kid now that they were all past that stage. Before this kid, the youngest had been Ric, who looked no older than fifteen at most and was a little on the small side.

 

The bathroom was empty, everyone out at the box. I brought the curly-haired boy over to one of the sinks.

 

“Here, you can clean up a bit.” It took a few seconds, but finally my hand was released. I let him do it on his own time, not pulling away until he did first. With shaky hands he turned the water on and set to splashing it on his face. I pulled a towel off one of the nearby racks and held it out to him when it looked like he was done.

 

Sniffing quietly, he pats his face with it and dries his hands. Then he stands there, awkwardly holding the towel and watching me with wide eyes.

 

“Where are we?” he asks, voice cracking.

 

I sigh deeply, watching the way he shakes with every breath. “We call it the Glade.”

 

* * *

 

His name is Chuck and for the first week he doesn’t leave my side. Newt thinks it’s cute, like a baby duck following a mama duck. I leveled him an unamused look when he told me that. He just smiled and kissed me, to which Chuck wrinkled his nose at. Not out of disgust because we were two boys, but rather because at his age kissing still meant cooties.

 

“Give it another year,” I’d told him, to which his only response was to scowl and vehemently reply, “No way!”

 

Luckily, Chuck liked Newt. It’s not hard to like the blond, despite his sometimes  _ blunt  _ demeanor he’s still one of the kindest boys in the Glade. Chuck prefers our company simply because we don’t pick on him for being young or chubby or ‘incompetent’. That last one is the preferred adjective of a few other Gladers, because Chuck proved himself to be awful at basically everything. He was quite quickly placed with the Sloppers, Dmitri and Luke, of whom he got along with pretty well. It was nice to see that his age didn’t  _ completely _ stop him from making friends. No one in the Glade was allowed to forget that we were all here together and Chuck was one of us now.

 

Once he’d settled down, Chuck decided to make himself feel better by becoming a prankster. It wasn’t appreciated by half the Gladers, Gally especially. Chuck learned early on to restrict the amount of pranks he played on the Keeper of the Builders. 

 

Life was actually pretty decent. It’d been a little bit over three years since this all started, I myself having been here for just under that amount of time. ( Well over two years of this Glade -- this box. ) It was strange to think that Newt had been here since the beginning, had truly spent all three years in this prison. If there was a way out, we should have found it by now. I didn’t voice the thought, but I knew that he felt the same. We were both a little sad, both feeling like we didn’t belong here.

 

I hadn’t been feeling better physically, but now with Chuck I pushed myself to be better emotionally. Having someone to care for seemed to help. Enduring any teasing about my mother-henning was easy and infrequent, with Newt and Minho at my back.

 

Plus, no one would push me around even if they wanted. I’d proven my brawling skills in the sand pit. While I wasn’t bulky, I was still pretty toned and of average height and build. I’d measured myself just yesterday -- or rather, Clint had -- and I was at 5’10” now. Not so small anymore.

 

Newt still remained taller, a fact he gloated about silently. I think he just liked the way I fit in his arms. It wasn’t that he was  _ that  _ much bigger but I didn’t feel like I was growing anymore, while  _ he  _ still got growing pains  _ and  _ was pushing 6’. Truthfully I didn’t mind, even if I didn’t admit it. I liked that he was taller and could easily wrap his muscular arms around me. 

 

He’d taken to wearing tank tops a little more frequently, so my appreciation of his arms probably hadn’t gone unnoticed. Jerk. I couldn’t help it! Something about the slope of his biceps, the veins of his forearms and the broadness of his hands sent my head into a tailspin. He’d grown more attractive in the last couple months, well into puberty by now. And boy, was it doing him some favors. 

 

It was crazy to think that just six months ago I was struggling with my feelings, and now I was sitting here drooling over the new sharpness of his jawline. His button nose. His wide, dark eyes and serious brow. The little lines by his mouth when he smiled. I’d always had a fascination with the impossible color of his hair but that was nothing new. The only thing that had changed was now I could appreciate it whenever I wished, however I wished. Which usually meant I spent a lot of time with his head pillowed on my chest while I ran my fingers through it, marveling at the sunset strands.

 

We’ve been doing that a lot lately, when I couldn’t find the energy to talk but wanted to express my affection. Newt certainly didn’t mind. I think he was just happy I was in a better mood. Not a hundred percent, but definitely improved. 

 

In fact, we were doing it right now. It was dark, the first hints of light slipping over the wall. Most of the Glade remained asleep, the only ones awake being the Runners and the Cooks. Chuck had taken my old hammock, never moving after I’d offered it so he could stay close. It wasn’t too hard to see he preferred being around me instead of the other boys. He’d probably be told to move into another section in a few days, after the need for special treatment ran out. Gally had already set up his hammock in the Slopper area. 

 

“Gotta get up soon,” I whisper, making sure to keep my voice low and for Newt’s ears only. His head shifts on my chest and he exhales noisily, reluctance obvious.

 

“Ugh,” he groans. “Don’t remind me.”

 

“Big baby,” I croon, running my fingers through his hair and against his scalp. He huffs a laugh through his nose, a hand on my hip tracing circles against my skin. He had a habit of slipping his hands under my shirt, never going too high or too low, simply resting around my hip or abdomen.

 

“Slim it,” I could hear the eye roll in his tone.

 

Snickering quietly, I press a kiss to the top of his head. “The Runners are already heading out.”

 

I could see them from here. Today it was Nick, Minho, Scott, Hank, Wes, Dan, Joe, Perry and Ben. It was the most Runners we’d ever had at one time, which was a relief to Minho. Ben transferring over from the Builders was like a godsend for the Keeper. Ben had only been running the Maze about two weeks, but Nick was already talking about finally letting up and staying back with Alby. They only really needed eight Runners, after all. For each section of the Maze. 

 

Eight sections? How...how would I know that?  _ Had  _ I known that? Maybe I’d overheard Minho. (Hadn’t something like this happened before?) Whatever. Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to Newt, who began to rise. The other Gladers were all coming into the waking world, filling the Canopy with the sounds of rustling and sleepy groans.

 

Newt slipped from the hammock, taking a moment to steady himself once he was on his feet. A grimace flashed across his face and he lifted his right leg to stretch it out. I caught a flash of the scarring on his ankle as the hem of his pants rode up. He didn’t like to show it, despite me having already seeing basically  _ everything _ . I was the one who patched him up in the first place, after all. They didn’t bother me, those scars of his. I suppose I couldn’t exactly understand the dislike he might hold for them. Scars marred the skin, sure, and they usually lasted forever -- but I had a lot of scars. On my hands, my arms and my torso. I even had one or two on each leg. The difference was that I  _ came _ with them. Those scars, in my mind, had always been a part of me. Like a freckle or birthmark you’re born with. They didn’t bother me because I didn’t remember myself without them. They were natural to me.

 

The scarring on Newt was not. In his eyes, it was only a reminder of his weakness. Of his mistake. I thought it was a reminder that he was alive, that he’d  _ survived _ . I liked them. I hadn’t really told him, because we haven’t gotten anywhere close to seeing each other without clothes in a non-medical setting. But one day I would, when I could find the right words. He deserved to know that every part of him was perfect to me.

 

“Alright, guess it’s time t’ start the day then.” he mutters, turning to me after he finishes stretching and placing a swift kiss to my cheek. Kisses on the mouth were usually reserved for  _ after _ we brushed out teeth. 

 

“Mm,” I hummed in acknowledgement, maneuvering off the hammock. My back pops as I stretch, loud even to my ears. I catch Newt glancing at the sliver of skin revealed by my shirt when I raise my arms, and send him a cheeky grin when our eyes meet. He smirks, eyes crinkling and tongue tracing his bottom lip. The expression on his face sends a jolt of heat to my gut and brings a ruddy flush to my cheeks. I avert my eyes bashfully, self-consciousness overriding my teasing ability.

 

“Ick.” 

 

We both start, glancing at Chuck, who’s sitting on my old hammock, chubby cheeks puffed up with childish disgust. Newt rolls his eyes and I flush a shade darker.

 

“Bugger off, ya shank.” he growls without any real heat. Chuck scrambles from the hammock anyway, uncoordinated and clumsy. He sticks out his tongue at Newt before darting away with a giddy smile. I envy the fact that he can feel so awake already. Newt and I have been lazing around for a half hour now and I still feel a little groggy.

 

“Ignore it,” I bump his shoulder, bringing another smile to his thin lips. My eyes cut over the shape of his jaw before flickering back up to his umber gaze. “Let’s get to breakfast.”

 

Newt takes my hand; rough, calloused fingertips sliding down my palm before intertwining our fingers together. “After you, love.”

 

* * *

 

We go about our day as usual and it isn’t until the sun begins to get low in the sky that we realize not all the Runners have returned. The doors close in less than a half hour and that’s more worrying than anyone wants to admit. Every single night, Runners are back about an hour before the doors close, just to be safe. Everyone was back...everyone but Nick.

 

The lateness of our leader had the whole Glade camped around the entrance to the Maze, the gaping doors just feet away. Looking down the stone opening into the vine-covered corridors was more than a little unsettling. In truth, I’d never been so close for so long. I didn’t like the deep shadows and eerie silence, it felt like something was  _ watching _ us. We looked in and  _ It _ looked back.

 

Alby stood front and center, arms crossed and jaw clenched. He peered into the Maze with unwavering force, expression blank aside from subtle flashes of agitation. When he was worried or scared, Alby usually turned to anger. Not exactly good qualities for a leader, but he could certainly wrangle all of us together when needed. He’d also always been the  _ Second-in-Command _ . Nick made all the big decisions. Nick was the one in charge. He was also our friend, and we didn’t want him to die.

 

Newt held my hand and pressed into my side. His head was bowed, though his eyes were tilted up so he could keep an eye on the cavernous entrance before us. We all waited, the whole Glade, in silence. And silence was all we heard in return. No slap of footsteps in the distance, no heavy breathing. The atmosphere was tense and growing worse with every minute that passed. The seconds were counting down with the sun.

 

_ Please, please, please. _ I thought desperately. Nick had been here since the beginning, he was the one who helped hold us all together. He helped  _ build _ the community we now had. We flourished because of him. I still remembered the first time I saw him, almost three years ago. He was younger then, his dark hair a little longer and his dark eyes a little brighter, but he’d been nice. Always nice. Like everyone here, he didn’t deserve to die.

 

There was a great, thunderous groan. The sound of massive shifting gears and grating concrete filled the air. A howling wind blasted through the Maze doors. I squinted against the force, biting my lip viciously. Newt’s grip on my hand tightened and I heard his shaky exhale.

 

Murmuring started up as the doors began to slowly close. Some of the boys began to leave, downcast and shaking their heads. I met Minho’s eyes. The expression on his face was inscrutable, his fingers clenched so tightly on his arms they were bloodless. After a beat, he slowly looked down, body loosening like strings had been cut. He sighs and turns, striding away from the doors. I watch him go, mouth dry. We can’t -- we can’t give up….

 

Wildly, I turn my gaze back to the doors. I can barely hear anything over the sound of them closing. The entrance is rapidly shrinking and no matter how much I squint I still see no one on the other side. Nick isn’t there.

 

_ Run. _ I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling, the  _ need _ to move. I should run in. 

 

No, that’s stupid. Why would I do that? It’s almost shut, there’s no time to go looking for Nick. If I went in there, I’d die. No one survives a night in the Maze. With Nick not returning, I’d only be killing myself as well. 

  
The doors roll shut, pressing together with a final  _ bang _ . My eyes slip shut too, brow furrowing. Newt lets out a low, quiet sound. There’s no denying it, Nick belongs to the Maze now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeey, just to remind you, i kinda combine some book elements, so the way i describe Newt is a Smidge different than his movie appearance. feel free to picture TBS, bc i still do. he's just a little taller and more muscular haha!


	13. Day One....Greenie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, sorry this took so long???????? i got a job and i've been trying to adjust with working, being exhausted, and writing in my spare time. plus i had a really bad case of writer's block . . .this chapter did NOT want to be written and honestly i'm not really happy with it, but. . . oh well !

“I’m gonna shuckin’ kill him.” Gally snarls, a towel pressed to his nose to stem the blood flow. His hair still drips wet from his shower. 

 

“Go easy on him, he didn’t mean for you to get hurt.” I admonish him gently, tugging the towel gently away from his face to see if his nose is still bleeding heavily. One of Chuck’s pranks had gone awry. The boy had snuck up on Gally while the Builder was in the shower and let out a yell, startling him so badly he’d slipped and bashed his face on the stall. 

 

It looks like the bleeding has slowed, to my relief.

 

“Yeah, well, it happened ‘n he’s got to own up to it.” Gally grumbles, fingers clenching at his sides. I sigh, placing the bloody towel down and grabbing a new one. I dip this one in a bucket of water by my side, squeezing it tight to wring out the excess liquid. Slowly and carefully, I dab at the blood stains on his skin, mindful of his winces and hisses. 

 

Gally won’t actually harm Chuck. As annoying as our youngest Glader can be, we all love him dearly, like a communal little brother. He’s very innocent, the age gap enough for us all to want to protect him. Like  _ instinct _ . With me, it just feels natural, like I’ve always been meant to care for someone. Guess that’s why I make such a good Medjack.

 

“Of course,” I placate, more amused by Gally’s blustering than worried. “Now be a little careful, will ya? It’s probably gonna bruise. Be gentle with breathing through it, and sleep face up.”

 

I take my hand away and Gally immediately prods his sore nose with his fingers. “It wasn’t broken?” he asks.

 

“Nope, ya just banged it real good.” Collecting both the rags, I drop them in the water bucket to be cleaned later. “And quite pokin’ at it so much.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” he grouches, getting up from the table and standing. He shakes out his shoulders and takes a careful breath through his nose. “Alright. Thanks, doc.”

 

“Of course,” I reply warmly, giving him a bright smile. I get a flicker of one in return as Gally nods in farewell, stepping out of the Medhut and into the sun.

 

“I don’t understand how you actually hold a civil conversation with him.” Jeff comments, having been silent for the past half hour. I almost forgot he was in here.

 

“He’s not as bad as you guys seem to think he is.” Gally is just….less sociable. He has a hard time with expressing himself -- but that doesn’t make him a bad guy. I relate to him on some level. While he channels this lack of social skill into aggression, I channel it into anxiety. We have the same problem, just different  _ fronts _ . Of course, I don’t say this. Words aren’t my specialty. 

 

Jeff snorts, “Yeah, sure. He’s not  _ awful _ . But I wouldn’t go outta my way to talk t’ him.”

 

“I think he’d prefer that, actually.” I respond, huffing a laugh. 

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

 

* * *

It happens a few days before the new Greenie is set to come up. ‘It’ being the stomach turning sensation of dread. I’m halfway to the lunch gathering by the firepit when it hits. It’s so  _ overwhelming _ that the sheer amount of stress that suddenly materializes on my shoulders makes me stumble. I blink wildly, bone-deep nausea making me see stars. 

 

I’ve already been feeling awful lately, as much as I try to hide it, but this was the tipping point. The plate in my hands clatters to the ground, utensils clanging together and food spilling onto the grass. 

 

“Eddie?” I hear, but the voice sounds like it’s coming from another room. It’s Newt, his worried face swimming into view. I hadn’t realized my vision was blurring until I notice I can’t make out all the features of his countenance. Reality falls away into shades of gray and white -- into disorienting stop-motion that draws sweat to my brow.

 

“I don’t feel--” I start, pausing as my stomach heaves. Without preamble I lean forward and vomit. 

 

“Eddie!” Newt yelps, jerking back instinctively before surging forward once the initial disgust passes. His hands grasp my arms just as my knees give out and he grunts, supporting my whole weight.

 

“Oh shit, oh shit,” he murmurs, a wild look in his eyes. Footsteps approach rapidly and more figures enter my line of sight. It’s Clint and Jeff and some of the other boys. 

 

In a snap, the world comes back. I suck in a breath and cough, tasting bile on my tongue. 

 

“Eurgh,” a disgusted noise leaves my lips. It transform into an “Ack!” about two seconds later, when Newt all but scoops me up.

 

“Newt--” I begin, going limp in his arms despite the protest on the tip of my tongue. His hand slots under my butt and hoists me up, forcing me to wrap my legs around his waist. I flush a brilliant red, feeling like a child.

 

“If this is about my leg, you can slim it.” he says before I can finish my sentence. My jaw snaps shut with a click. “I can handle your weight for a few minutes.”

 

I dip my face into his neck to avoid the stares of the others and let him carry me to the bathroom. When we get there, I don’t say a word as he grunts and lets me down. There’s a flash of discomfort across his face but I don’t comment on it, sure my words won’t be well received.  _ He’s prideful at the worst times. _

 

He leaves me at the sink, shuffling over to the cabinet and wrenching it open. The veins in his arms are startlingly visible, the tension in his body obvious. Brown eyes flicker through the space before him until his hand darts out to retrieve a box from within. I know it’s mine, even without the sight of my name carved into the surface. He hands it over, expression unreadable. I take it. 

 

The silence grates on my nerves as I begin to brush my teeth. Newt’s gaze on my back is like a physical weight. I feel a flash of annoyance. What right does he have to be pissed when I’m the one suffering? If anyone has a right to be mad it’s me! I spit into the sink, mullish.

 

“Are you angry with me?” the question slips out before I can help myself. I immediately want to suck it back in, pluck it from the air before it hits his ears. It’s impossible, of course. I can’t bring myself to look at him. 

 

When I entered this relationship with Newt I didn’t know what to expect. I know absolutely nothing about relationships of the romantic kind and I have no prior experience with any of the accompanying emotions. But I did...think it’d be different. We aren’t the stereotypical lovers in those stories my mind can faintly recall with very little context. I want to be, as embarrassing as the thought is. I want to hold his hand and kiss him in public, to brush the hair from his eyes and stare into them without faltering. Sure, we kiss. Sure, we hold each other close at night. But for most of our time together it’s felt tense and lacking in passion.

 

And it’s my fault. It has to be. 

 

“No,” came the quiet response after a long beat of silence. It leaves Newt’s chest in a gust of breath. He sounds a lot closer than before, so I turn to find him mere inches away, expression a mask of seriousness. It shifts when we make eye contact, falling into something softer. “Never.”

 

“But I--I’m--” I fumble, hating the way my voice catches. Newt’s eyes becomes tender and he leans forward until our foreheads are pressed together, his hands finding their way to my hips and turning me until our bodies face each other. “I’m no good at this, Newt.”

 

“Doesn’t matter.” he whispers. 

 

“I-I’m sick, probably. I’m cranky and annoying. I’m out of my shuck mind--” 

 

Firmer this time, he murmurs, “It doesn’t matter, luv.”

 

“What do you  _ mean _ it doesn’t matter!” my voice is shrill in the quiet of the bathroom. Faintly I wonder where Clint and Jeff are, they wouldn’t have just wandered away after I’d thrown up like that. ( After  _ anyone _ had. They’re our doctors after all. )

 

“I’m saying’,” he pulls his head back a little so he can look into my eyes. A hand comes up to brush a strand of hair by my ear. “That crazy, sick, or crabby, I don’t bloody care. I still fancy you. You can’t scare me away.”

 

My face screws up. I feel tears coming on, my emotions haywire. There’s a lump in my throat I can’t swallow past. I remain as resolute as possible, refusing to let the tears fall. I feel my face heat up, no doubt turning blotchy and unattractive.

 

“You can cry if you need to, it’s jus’ me here. I’ll never judge you for that.” he whispers, still meeting my eyes with an intent that makes butterflies explode in my gut.

 

“It’s gross,” and ugly, I don’t say. I’m a little ashamed to admit I don’t want to look unappealing in his eyes, it seems ridiculous.

 

Yet he seems to catch on, because a smile curls at the edges of his mouth and he huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh. “Covered in mud and sweat or vomit and tears -- hell, even blood or piss -- you’ll always be the most stunning  _ slinthead  _ in the whole bloody world t’ me.”

 

“Shut up,” I laugh wetly, tears spilling down my blushing cheeks. “I am  _ not _ .”

 

“Are  _ too _ ,” he laughs with me, tilting forward to brush our noses together. “You think, after seein’ me the way I was ‘n still wantin’....wantin’  _ me _ I’d do any less for you? You saw me at my absolute bloody worst, luv. I must’a been one gross, nasty lookin’ shank ‘n you still stuck by my side ‘n never once judged me for it or looked at me any different.”

 

“You were injured--” 

 

“Yeah,” he says, interrupting me quickly. “and you’re just sick. That doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

 

“What if I never get better?” I voice my fear, tilting my head into the hand he places on my cheek. His thumb brushes a few tears. 

 

“Still won’t change anythin’.” he reaffirms.

 

“I’m always gonna be like this.” I finally say, partially distracted by the slow glide of his thumb on my cheekbone. “Needin’....reassurance.”

 

Newt’s mouth presses against my own, careful and light as a feather. “I know.” he murmurs, not pulling away. His words vibrate against my lips. He kisses me, close-mouthed, for a good minute. I let him, reciprocating in kind and letting his warmth soothe away the ache in my chest. My tears stop. His lips part ever so slightly and I feel the wet slide of his tongue against my sealed lips. It startles me enough that I jerk back, already feeling a rosy flush rise to my cheeks. This time it’s for a completely different reason. 

 

Newt looks at me, silent. His eyes search my own. We don’t say anything for a long moment. He doesn’t try to explain what he’d just done and honestly he doesn’t need to. I know what it was, I just hadn’t realized he knew  _ tongues  _ could be added to kisses. Maybe he’s been talking with Sven and Adam. He works pretty closely with Adam as a track-hoe, so maybe they share information on the whole dating thing. The other two have been seeing each other for longer than Newt and I, after all. They’re probably more knowledgeable. (Not that I want to assume their pacing is the same as ours. That’s rude, I think.)

 

My hands slide up to his neck and pull him back down. I seal my lips back over his, this time keeping them slightly parted. My tongue darts out to return the favor of tracing at the entrance of his mouth. He makes a quiet noise that rumbles in his chest, his hands gripping my hips with a renewed vigor. The first touch of our tongues sends a fiery bolt of heat lancing down my spine. I shiver, knees going weak. Newt moves his tongue slowly, with small, curious flicks. It darts in and out of my mouth, domineering the kiss. It’s a pretty tame exploration, because we’re both new to this type of kiss and trying to figure it all out. It’s definitely not perfect. ( Sometimes too much tongue. Too much saliva. Drool pools near the corners of my mouth. It’s a little gross. ) But it’s still amazing, awkward as it occasionally gets. 

 

When we separate I gulp in air, having been so swept up in the heat and slow glide of Newt’s tongue against the roof of my mouth that I’d forgotten to breathe through my nose. My chest heaves and through my lustful daze I notice the bright flush on Newt’s face and the dark shade of earth his eyes had turned. He kisses me again while I’m still trying to recover, using his strength and height to push forward and back me up against the bathroom wall. One of his hands slides up my spine to rest at the back of my neck while the other dips low on the small of my back, teasing the hem of my pants. A groan, muffled and unbidden, rises from my throat. My hands move from his neck to tangle in his hair. I’m not sure what’s come over me -- over us. But I do know whatever is happening feels  _ good. _ Newt is suitably distracting, from the press of his lips and tongue and teeth, to the feel of his silky locks between my fingers, to the hot,  _ unrelenting  _ force of his body pinning me to both him and wall. My back is arched into him, our chests separated by only our shirts.

 

Teeth dig into my bottom lip and pull lightly, curious. I moan, startling myself. I didn’t know I could make such a noise. Newt smiles and I can feel it against my mouth. He pulls back and I follow, catching myself when he grins, all blazing heat and male smugness. The blush on my face darkens. I’m embarrassed by my eagerness. My eyes lower and dart to the side.

 

“No,” he murmurs, voice husky. He takes the hand on the back of my neck and slips it around, burning a path across my skin until he’s cradling my jaw and turning my face back up. When I look to him his smile is  _ light years _ more gentle, the full weight of his lust and adoration visible. I tremble all the way down to my toes. “Don’t you turn those pretty eyes away from me for a bleedin’  _ second _ , alrigh’, luv? I wanna see every flicker in ‘em. Wanna  _ see _ you fall apart.”

 

My mouth goes dry. I should have known he’d be like this, after the way he’d acted when he was drunk. A large part of me certainly does not mind. I’m ridiculously comfortable with the idea of sitting back and letting him take the wheel. Following directions is easiest for me -- so of course I’ll like it if he takes charge and tells me what to do. That way I’ll never embarrass myself. Hopefully.

 

Newt tilts my head to the side and his teeth and lips find purchase against the tendons of my neck. I jerk in his grip but he holds fast. I’m not trying to get away anyway, I’d just been surprised by the small twinge of pleasure-pain. He presses heavy, wet kisses across my throat before pressing his lips to my pulse and sucking. What starts as a squeak deepens into a moan, my jaw dropping and eyes fluttering. It’s so  _ much _ , his mouth and hands and heat. I feel enveloped and surrounded in a way that’s very different from when we’re sleeping beside each other. The tension between our bodies is on a completely different  _ wavelength _ , far more intense than it’s ever been before. Newt mouths along my neck, biting and sucking up to my jaw. My head feels fuzzy -- I can’t even bring myself to feel embarrassed about the whimpers spilling from my lips.

 

Newt’s hands feel superheated against my skin. The fingers on my jaw remain firm, his thumb tracing back and forth. The hand on my back slips even further down, toying with the hem of my pants before moving past and unashamedly groping at my rear over my clothes.

 

“Whoa -- oh, shuck!”

 

A voice cuts through the fog. I freeze, eyes snapping open and peering over Newt’s shoulder. Minho stands at the entrance, eyes wide and mouth open. After a second his head tilts and a wicked smirk takes over his face. Newt sighs against my skin, straightening up and moving his hands to more appropriate places. They settle on my hips, Newt shifting just slightly to look at Minho too, not even hiding his annoyance. It’s visible from the furrow in his brow to the deep scowl twisting his thin lips.

 

“Wow, couldn’t keep it in your pants, huh Newtie?” Minho goads, arms crossing and a single brow raising to accompany his giddy smirk. 

 

“Minho.” Newt all but growls. “ _ Timing. _ ”

 

“Oh my god,” I whisper, mortified. I drop my forehead onto Newt’s shoulder, hiding my face.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I interrupt your steamy make-out session in the bathroom?” the Runner asks, tone faux innocent. “Which, by the way, is real classy, real public, and  _ real _ hygienic. Honestly, I’m doing you guys a favor by interrupting your grope-fest. Lunch is almost done and the afternoon bathroom break flood is about t’ begin. Pretty sure Eddie doesn’t wanna be caught by the whole shuckin’ Glade with your grimy hands down his pants.”

 

Newt sighs. I don’t see his expression with my face pressed to his collarbone but I feel him relax. He moves his hands from my hips and slips one of them in mine, intertwining our fingers. I glance up and he offers me a cheeky smile.

 

“Like you won’t be runnin’ your bloody mouth about this anyway.” he says to Minho, glancing back at the other boy. 

 

Minho looks offended for all of two seconds before shrugging. “Ok, that’s fair.”

 

Either way, Minho merely gossiping about it is a much better alternative to a group of the Gladers actually witnessing it, so I count my lucky stars. “Thanks anyway, Minho.”

 

The muscular teen’s smirk softens into a smile, meeting my eyes. “It was kind of an accident, but you’re welcome. I’d love it if I never say anything like it again. I’m gonna have nightmares now.”

 

“Oh, shove off,” Newt snorts as Minho begins to make retching noises.

 

Minho sticks out his tongue, looking for all the world like a smug asshole. “Whatever. Guess I’ll go tell Jeff ‘n Clint that you’re feeling  _ better _ , Eddie.” His tone is suggestive, punctuated by a wiggle of his eyebrows.

 

* * *

I  _ am  _ feeling better, actually. Sorta numb, but good. It feel like,  _ physically _ , things are looking up. Mentally? Not so much. I can’t shake the feeling of  _ wrongness _ that had settled over me ever since I’d thrown up a few days ago. A feeling that completely overtakes me the morning the new Greenie is to arrive.

 

The Gladers are just started to wake when my eyes shoot open, a gasp tearing from my throat. The sky is tinted light gray and pink with the signs of early dawn. Newt stirs beside me, groaning into awareness. His sleepy brown eyes squint shut tight before cracking open.

 

“Wha’ssa matter?” he murmurs, still half asleep.

 

I can’t respond, my whole body having frozen. My lungs seize. I cough violently. Newt shoots up as my limbs begin to shake and tremble. 

 

_ EDDIE, EDDIE.  _ A voice screams in my mind. One I know like the back of my hand yet not at all. I keep coughing, feeling exceedingly heavy despite my limbs refusing to settle. Faintly, I register the fact that Newt is speaking, pleading for me to tell him what’s wrong. 

 

_ Eddie, it’s my turn. I’ve done something. I love you. _

 

_ Who are you? _ I cry within my head, desperate for an answer. I don’t want to be crazy, I don’t want this to be some figment of my imagination. There’s no reply. My heart sinks. No, it’s more than that. It feels like my whole body is floating. I’m on a different plane of existence, floating through nothingness.

 

My eyes slip shut. I don’t hear Newt anymore. I don’t hear anything.

 

A beat passes. I open my eyes.

 

The world is made up of hues of blue and purple. There’s no floor or ceiling, just space. I’m not standing, instead I’m hovering over nothingness, my hair ruffled by a breeze I don’t feel. 

 

“Hello?” My voice echoes into the void around me, layered like there’s two voices coming from my mouth. 

 

There’s no immediate response, but a spot of white begins to form before me. I flinch at the brightness, hands darting up to cover my eyes. I can still see it, the sheer force of the light turning the backs of my eyelids red. Just when it starts to become unbearable, it fades. Disappears like it was never there to begin with. Astonished, I drop my hands and open my eyes.

 

There’s someone in front of me. 

 

“H-Hello?” I greet dumbly. The boy in front of me is at my eye level, with deep brown hair that almost looks black and bright, caramel brown eyes. Moles and freckles spill across his skin, pale and uncalloused. He looks like the Greenie’s do before they settle into the work.

 

His mouth forms a ‘hello’ but no sound escapes. He smiles anyway, looking overcome by some emotion. Like a switch, I suddenly feel it too. A wave of desperation and adoration. In the next instant we crash together like two waves, chests colliding and arms snapping around each other. I breathe and it’s like taking the first breath above water after almost drowning. There’s a weightlessness I’ve never felt in all the years I’ve been in the Maze. I don’t ever remember feeling like this. But I know it’s  _ right _ . It’s how I’m  _ supposed  _ to feel. I came up in the Box incomplete and whoever this boy is -- he’s my other half. 

 

We press together as close as possible, desperate. If we could fuse into one person I’d do it gladly, as long as it meant never letting him go. Of course, as soon as that thought crosses my head, the boy blinks out of existence.

 

“Wait!” I scream in shock, curling in over a space that had once been occupied. “No, no! Come back!”

 

The world jerks and tilts, blues and purples whirling together. I yelp when my body moves with it, tossed down onto my back and -- I’m blinking.

 

There’s a thatch ceiling above me I’d recognize anywhere and the sound of the Greenie alarm in my ears. I’m in the Medhut and by the look of the light filling the room, it’s been a few hours since dawn. It’s almost noon, if I had to guess. I shove myself upright, sucking in a lungful of air. It’s the easiest breath I’ve taken in almost three years. I feel better than I ever have before.

 

“Eddie!” 

 

Newt is at my side, a hand on my arm. He peers at my face with a worried expression. Clint and Jeff hover over his shoulder, faces tight and drawn. 

 

“How are you feeling?” Jeff asks, stepping a little closer and glancing over my appearance.

 

I grin, giddy and filled with exuberance. “I feel great.”

 

That’s not the answer they’re expecting.

 

“You -- you feel great?” Newt asks, incredulous. “Eddie, you had a shuck  _ fit _ and wouldn’t wake for  _ hours _ !” 

 

I lick my lips, blinking. “I, uh, sorry? But I feel great now, really. Like I could run for days!” 

 

To prove my point I slip out of bed despite the warning sounds from the other three boys. After a brief head rush, I settle and glance to them, grin still on my face. “See? Totally fine. Actually, I don’t feel sick at all. This is -- honestly, this is the best I’ve felt in months!”

 

Newt’s face screws up and my two medjack colleagues share a look. 

 

“What, you’re just….better now?” the ex-runner questions, disbelief coloring his expression. 

 

“Yeah.” I hear the Greenie alarm give one last whine. “Because he’s here.”

 

With that cryptic statement, I sprint out of the Medhut towards the Box. The three behind me yell out and follow after a brief moment of surprise.

 

“Eddie! You shouldn’t be running after that!” Clint calls, huffing and puffing behind me. He’s never been much of a runner. Jeff follows easily, not saying a word. I don’t hear anything from Newt either but I know he’s following, his uneven gait thudding against the grass. 

 

“I told you, I’m fine!” I exclaim. Better than fine, actually. I’m flying across the grass like never before, feeling lighter than air. I come to a stop at the group gathered around the Box. There’s a moment of silence before it beeps shrilly, signalling that the contents have arrived at the top.

 

Newt jerks to a stop beside me, his shoulder knocking my own. “You’re not bloody fine,” he complains, a grimace on his face. “Doesn’t matter what you say, no one just feels fine after that!”

 

“I do.” my tone is short, impatient. I stand on my tip toes to try and see Gally as he starts to tug the doors open.

 

“Ok then, who’s here?” Newt tries, knowing for a fact that when I’m stubborn and snappy it’s like talking to a brick wall. “You said ‘he’s here’.”

 

“I don’t really know.” I admit slowly. I see Gally’s back muscles ripple as he rips the doors open and lets them slam to the sides. “My mystery person. But, you know, he’s kind of a  _ mystery _ . Hence the name.”

 

“...Eddie.”

 

I don’t have to look at Newt to know the expression on his face. He thinks I’ve finally gone crazy. His tone suggests as much, soft and wary. I ignore it. He’ll see. Every single time I’ve uttered the words ‘something’s missing’ -- they’ll all see. I wasn’t crazy. He’s here. He’s  _ real _ . 

 

Gally jumps into the Box. The boys crowd around, taking their first glimpse at the new kid. I only see an arm raised over a face. A blue shirt, gray pants.

 

“Day one, Greenie.” Gally says, crouched before the boy. He leans forward to grab hold of the Greenie and  _ freezes _ . “Holy fuck.”

 

From the corner of my eye I can see Newt glance at me. “What is it?” he yells down.

 

Gally grunt and tugs the Greenie, heaving him out of the box. The boys back up a bit, looming around the Greenie on the ground. He squirms and jerks like a startled animal. I see laughing, teasing faces -- and every once in a while a boy will blink and jerk back, startled by what they see. 

 

“Wait--” one of the Slicers, Mike, says. I shoulder forward boldly, something I’d never do otherwise. But I don’t make it in time. The Greenie jerks up and  _ runs _ , pushing through the crowd of boys. 

 

Jeers explode from the crowd. Newt presses against my side. I stare after the boy, eyes stuck to the back of his head. Dark hair. Arms pumping. Blue shirt.

 

“We got a Runner!” Zart hollers, his cry raising another round of laughs and jeers. The Greenie makes it a little further before tripping and face planting. The second he hits the ground I gasp and jerk, feeling a sting against my face.

 

Newt grips my shoulder. “Alright, luv?” he asks, still concerned despite probably thinking I’m insane.

 

“Newt.” Gally interrupts, pushing through the crowd. The Builder puts his heavy gaze on my face, tracing my features like he’s never seen them before. Newt bristles by my side and I shoot him a look of confusion. When Gally notices he almost rolls his eyes, but refrains. The situation is obviously serious.

 

“They have the same face.” he finally says. 

 

Newt raises a brow. “What?” he chuckles awkwardly in disbelief, like he can’t understand the words that just left Gally’s mouth.

 

“I said,” Gally puts his eyes on me. “Eddie and the Greenie, they have the same face.”

 

Without a second thought I turn and run, feet pounding against the ground with a fury I can’t explain. I see the boy standing, his attention captured by the Walls. He turns slowly, tracing their entire expanse boxing us in. I feel a storm in my chest. Confusion and terror warring with unknown grief. Grief for a lost identity. He doesn’t know  _ who  _ he is. He doesn’t know  _ where  _ he is.

 

I slow to a stop a few feet away and my whole soul  _ sings _ . He must feel it too, because he whirls to face me. It’s the boy from my dream, dark hair and caramel eyes and moles and all. We stare at each other for a long moment and I physically  _ feel  _ his heart rate settle. 

 

_ Safety.  _ I try to project. He’s safe here. I’ll make sure of it. I don’t even know who he is and yet I love him with my entire being. Not the way I love Newt, not at all. This is different. This is what I imagine family or a platonic soulmate would feel like.

 

“Hello.” I murmur, smiling.   
  


His lips tremble and his smile is strained, but he still manages a quiet and confused, “Hello.”

 

* * *

 

They throw him in the Slammer despite my loud protests. No one says a word, actually. They all glance from his face to mine, shaking their heads and looking stunned. Many of them keep shoving at each other, trying to get a glimpse of the Greenie’s face. Newt pulls me away when they shut the cell door behind my other half.

 

“What are you doing!” I snarl and turn to face him with more anger than I’ve ever felt before.

 

Newt releases me and holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “I know that you---” he stops. “Well, I don’t really know  _ what  _ you know. But that Greenie there? You’ve got somethin’ bloody weird goin’ on with him. That much  _ I _ know. ‘N I get it. Or at least, I  _ think  _ I do. You’ve got the same face ‘n all so -- ”

 

I take a breath and settle. I’m not actually mad at Newt, it’s the Greenie’s fear that’s putting me on edge. It sits in my throat like poison. 

 

“You’re twins.” he finishes, looking dazed and disbelieving of his own words despite the truth right before his eyes. “You’re buggin’ twins.”

 

“Is….” I wet my lips, eyes darting back to the Slammer. The very concept sounds new to my ears but right in my heart. Twins. We’re identical. “He’s really -- you’re not playin’?”

 

“Playing?” Newt huffs a laugh and spreads his hands. “Look around, luv! Everyone’s goin’ outta their shuck minds on account ‘a this Greenie!”

 

It still doesn’t feel real. I shake my head. The fear from -- from my  _ twin _ recedes. I finally feel my own wonder. “So…” I chuckle quietly, in a daze. “That’s what I look like.”

 

Newt laughs briefly, a quick, high noise. “Yeah, not bad, huh?” 

 

“Shut up,” I snicker, brushing his shoulder with my hand. “Control yourself.”

 

Newt simply shakes his head. We sit in silence for another minute. I see Alby go over to the Slammer. More than anything I want to go see  _ him _ .

 

Like he knows, Newt grasps my arm and starts tugging me away again.

 

“I know you wanna see him, luv, but he’s still a Greenie. He needs the run down just like the rest of us. There’s plenty of time ‘t see him after.” his hand slides down my arm to grip at my own, clasping our fingers together. I sigh, but don’t pull away.

 

“He’s what was missing.”

 

My boyfriend is quiet, not facing me as he walks. It’s a long, tension-filled moment before he finally speaks. “Yeah, he is. And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I wasn’t a very good boyfriend.”

 

These are the kinds of things that make or break a relationship. But I can’t find fault in him because if I was in his shoes I would have been skeptical too, loathe as I am to admit it. What’s happening to me is illogical. It doesn’t make sense in the slightest -- but I guess neither does the whole wiped memories and maze thing, if you think about it.

 

“It’s fine, Newt. I’m not mad.”

 

“You’re too good for me,” he jokes. Except I know he  _ means  _ it because I feel the exact same way --  _ he’s _ the one too good for me in my eyes. ( What a pair we make. )

 

“No, I think we’re pretty perfect for each other, actually.” 

 

Newt glances back at me and I’m overcome with affection. He smiles and it feels like the storm that’s been raging on in my mind for so long has passed. 

 

“I like you.” he murmurs, smile widening by the second.

 

Without hesitation I reply, “I like you too.” and then, after a beat, “but ‘boyfriend’ still sounds dumb to me.”

 

He laughs and shakes his head, sunlight glinting off fine blond locks. “ _ Lover _ then. Sounds a bit more  _ mature _ , yeah?” he wiggles his eyebrows in a very Minho-like motion, drawing a snort of laughter from my lips.

 

“Fine with me,  _ lover _ .” The word leaves my tongue in a tone I don’t often use. I’m flirting. Or at least,  _ trying _ to. I haven’t exactly figured it out yet.

 

Newt stares at me for a moment, teeth biting into his bottom lip. His gaze is heavy and lidded. It looks like he wants to say something, but instead he releases my hand, having finally pulled the both of us back to the edge of the Box. “You’re gonna drive me buggin’ mad. Get ‘t work then, I’ll see about that twin ‘a yours in a bit, yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” The word leaves me like a sigh. While I’m a little disappointed we couldn’t keep…. _ flirting _ ….I’m also glad he didn’t call me out on it. I’m worryingly short on seduction material. Not that I’m trying to  _ seduce  _ Newt! Oh, whatever. I set to helping Clint and Jeff with the boxes designated  _ Medical _ . Newt takes off, back to work. 

 

“So…” Jeff drawls, lugging a box into his arms and following Clint and I as we bring our cargo back to the Medhut. 

 

“So…” I mimic, sliding him amused glance. My friends look like they’re ready to burst at the seams. 

 

“You’ve totally got a twin!” Jeff explodes, “A  _ brother! _ ”

 

“Yeah, noticed that.” 

 

Clint snorts, “Don’t be smart, you’re reelin’ just like the rest of us.”

 

We slip into the Medhut, our shoes padding almost soundlessly across the dirt and thatch flooring. The boxes of supplies are dropped hurriedly on desks, the two boys rounding on me almost immediately.

 

“What’s it like?” Jeff asks, looking at me like I’m a whole new species. 

 

“I dunno,” I crinkle my nose, both confused and amused. “I’m still wrapping my head around it. Am I supposed to feel a certain way?”

 

“How should I know? I’m not the one with the shuckin’ twin!”

 

I scowl playfully, “You’re the one who asked!”

 

“Slim it,” he mutters, pushing my shoulder and rolling his eyes.

 

“Alright, this is all super exciting and everything,” Clint starts, exhaling deeply. “But we still gotta look you over, Eddie.”

 

I straighten up, “What? Why?”

 

Clint levels me with a look that screams ‘are you stupid?’ and with a completely deadpan tone says, “You had a seizure and passed out for several hours.” 

 

“Ah.” Yeah, that would do it. “I told you, I’m fine now.”

 

“Eddie…” he begins, curls bouncing against his forehead as he tilts his head up to gaze heavenward. It’s clear he doesn’t quite believe me.

 

“No, I mean it. Do you want me to do cartwheels or somethin’ to prove it?” 

 

Jeff snorts, “I’d like to see that.”

 

Clint releases a long-suffering sigh, “Shut up. Whatever. If you say you’re fine I’ll take your word for it. Can’t deny that you don’t look like death anymore.”

 

I give him a flat look, “Thanks.”

 

“Hey,” he raises his brow, “I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. You looked like griever klunk.”

 

“ _ Thanks. _ ” I say it a little louder, throwing my hands up. “You do wonders for my self confidence, really.”

 

* * *

 

Patience is no longer my strong suit. Not when it comes to my brother, I guess. I’m pacing back and forth at the Medhut entrance, peering out to watch Alby lead  _ him _ around. Every once in a while my brother turns like he’s looking for someone before he catches himself and glances back to Alby. 

 

I cross my arms. Pace a little more. Clint sighs somewhere behind me. I don’t stop. A few seconds later I see the familiar figure of my bo -- my  _ lover _ approach the two. Newt’s gait is cheery despite the limp, and there’s a smile on his face I can see from here. My fingernails dig into my arms but I hardly notice the sting. I’m actually jealous of Newt. The thought brings a frown to my face. There’s no reason to be, after all, my brother’s gonna be here with us a while. It’s just -- I wanted to be one of the first to speak with him. That exchange of  _ Hello’s  _ didn’t really count. 

 

Biting my lip, I watch from the shaded entrance as Newt introduces himself. I can’t hear what’s being said and that makes me wildly curious. Everything about this Greenie makes me curious. It is currently my most overwhelming feeling. I have an inkling that it’s actually so  _ potent  _ because it belongs to both of us. Our similar emotions  _ feeding  _ off each other. Because that’s a thing. 

 

Newt walks away and my brother is led onward by Alby, but I see him look back three whole times at the blond’s receding figure. I wonder if my brother can feel my affection for Newt. I hope that’s the case, I’d prefer that they like and trust one another. Otherwise this could get awkward. There’s no  _ way  _ I could choose between my best friend-slash-boyfriend and my family.

 

“Would you sit down?” Jeff snaps. “Your pacing is making me anxious.”

 

Startled, I release the death grip I have on my own arms, leaving behind crescent fingernail marks in the skin. “Sorry.”

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so worked up before.” Clint comments idly.

 

“Well I have a good reason.” I mutter, glancing back out the door. Alby and the Greenie have disappeared from view. For a moment I panic, then I see them by the lookout post, halfway up the ladder.

 

“How long is Alby gonna take?” I’m biting at my fingernails now, anxiously tapping my foot.

 

“Relax, Eddie.” Clint says half-heartedly, only partially paying attention. He’s working, cataloguing all the new supples we received. It’s what I should be doing too, instead of pacing here like a worried mother. “There’s a lot to be said.”

 

Jeff squints at me, “I know he’s your shuckin’ brother ‘n all but, uh, what are you even gonna say to him? You don’t actually  _ know _ him.”

 

I pause, pulling my battered fingers from my mouth. Jeff has a point. I have no idea what to say to my brother, I only know that I have a desperate desire to just _see_ him and be in his vicinity. Being away when he’s so close feels like torture, especially after years of being here in the Glade _alone_ while thinking I was going crazy. 

 

“It doesn’t matter that I don’t remember him or really  _ know _ him. I just wanna see him.” my voice cracks, desperation finally breaking through. “I love him.”

 

Those three words I haven’t even said to Newt, I say with ease now for the Greenie. The context is completely different of course. ( Also, it wouldn’t be right to say ‘I love you’ to Newt. I don’t love him. Not yet. But I can. )

 

Jeff shakes his head with a scoff, clearly startled by my confession. “You love him? Eddie, he’s been here a few hours and you’ve yet to really talk to the shank!”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” he wouldn’t understand. Jeff doesn’t have someone who is so obviously  _ his _ . My brother is mine. I am my brother’s. We’re twins, two halves of a whole. I’ve been stuck here for three years desperately loving a missing part of me and not realizing it at all. Now that he’s here I finally have the words for it. I finally understand what it is. “He’s my brother, Jeff. Of course I love him.”

 

My friend looks like he’s going to say something else, but before he can we’re interrupted by Chuck. “Hey!”

 

I spin so fast I feel my neck crack. “Can I see him?”

 

Chuck takes a step back, startled. His arms are full of supplies. After collecting himself, he snorts, “Yeah, Newt said to grab ya.”

 

“Finally!” I groan in relief, pressing my hands to his shoulders and guiding him urgently out of the Medhut. “Let’s go then!”

 

“Hey, hey!” Chuck complains, shifting his feet clumsily and ducking as best he can to escape my hands. “Slow down a bit, will ya?” There’s a pause, and then, “Shank.”

 

“Stop.” I laugh reflexively. “It’s gotta be more natural, Chucky.”

 

We make our way quickly to the lookout. I see both Alby and my twin high in the tree, leaning out against the railing. Chuck huffs and puffs behind me, cheeks bright red. I feel bad, only now realizing that I should have asked if he needed help carrying all the Greenie supplies. My thoughts had only been about getting to my twin as quickly as possible. When I turn to him to apologize he merely shakes his head with a light scowl.

 

“Hey Alby!” he calls, tilting his head back to look up at the two boys. I purse my lips and turn back to the tree, following his gaze. Chuck places the supplies in his arms on the ground as Alby and the Greenie shift to look down at us. 

 

“Hey Chuck,” Alby greets easily. Chuck waves giddily, one hand on his hip. I can tell he’s actually pretty excited to show the Greenie around. It’s his first ‘big’ job so to speak. “Where you been man?”

 

“Had to grab this shank.” the pudgy boy replies, tossing a thumb in my direction. I can’t really make out Alby’s features from so far away, but I’m pretty sure he just smiled.

 

My attention shifts back to my brother. His eyes are on me. I don’t even have to see them up close to know it. I look back steadily, heart thudding in my chest. I feel like I’ve run a marathon with the way my pulse is pounding.

 

“We’re on our way down!” Alby says, disappearing from view. The Greenie pauses for a moment, still watching me. There’s a muted sound -- probably Alby -- and then his attention is drawn away. He doesn’t glance back as he moves out of view.

 

Watching the two of them reappear on their way down the ladder is the most nerve-wracking experience. I rock back and forth on my heels. Chuck shoots me a look. 

 

When the Greenie finally reaches the bottom he steps back and away from the ladder to make room for Alby and wipes his palms on his pants. His shoulders are tensed, face twisting with both confusion and contemplation. I take a small step forward. The movement catches his eye and he turns, meeting my eyes. For a long, quiet moment we just stare at each other.

 

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. Chuck coughs obnoxiously beside me. Alby rolls his eyes and turns away, leaving us to our mess. The Greenie is in Chuck’s hands now. 

 

Swallowing, I take another shaky step forward, holding my hand out. Handshakes are fine, right? Not too forward? I offer him a grin, hoping I don’t look as nervous as I feel. “Hey. I’m Eddie.”

 

The Greenie looks at my hand for a second, like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to make of it. Chuck makes another noise and my twin startles into action, grabbing my offered hand. When his skin touches my own it’s like lightning, sharp and intense all the way up my arm. Suddenly the floodgates are open. I feel everything. He feels everything. We’re united. Two bodies, one soul. We breathe at the same time, blink at the same time. Our hearts beat in sync. I stare at him like he holds all the wonders of the world and he stares right back. I want to hug him but I can’t tell if the desire is mine or his. ( It’s  _ ours _ . )

 

He steps forward first, our clasped hands stuck between our chests, his free hand curling around my shoulder. I move as he does, my own arm wrapping around his waist. It feels weird, because as far as I know this is our first meeting. Yet at the same time it’s like I’ve known him every second of my existence. I pluck at the connection between us and he plucks it right back. Contentedness seeps between us. We could stand here forever in each other’s arms. 

 

“Eh-hem.” Chuck clears his throat pointedly. “Are you two shanks done with your lovefest?”

 

The Greenie jerks, his ears burning red. He releases me and steps back, our hands separating.

 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, “I dunno what came over me.”

 

A flush rises to my own cheeks at the sight of his embarrassment. “It’s fine. I’m not really sure what that was either.”

 

“Can we get a move on?” Chuck asks, impatient, “Burning daylight here….slintheads.”

 

I groan, “Please, Chuck. Just don’t.”

 

The boy rolls his eyes and picks up the supplies from the ground. This time I move to help him. 

 

“Follow me, Greenie! You can make moon eyes with your brother later.” he chirps, setting off towards the Canopy with a skip in his step. 

 

The Greenie and I make eye contact briefly, our cheeks both burning a little hotter. I offer a smile out of reflex and he returns it just as quick. It’s odd. A little awkward. But it still feels right.

 

“So,” the Greenie clears his throat. I turn my attention to him a little too eagerly. “How long have you been here?”

 

“Almost three years.” I say, feeling a hollowness in my chest. My twin frowns.

 

“ _ Three years? _ ” he utters the words like they’re poison, visibly uncomfortable. The fact that we’d been separated for so long doesn’t sit well with him. ( I can feel it. )

 

“Yeah.” I nod. What else can I really say? “You know I….always knew something was missing.” I eye him, gracing my twin with a bright grin. He returns it almost instinctively. “Thought I was going completely bonkers, mind you, but….”

 

“I just….wasn’t here?” he asks, the smile fading into a frown.

 

“Obviously not.”

 

The Greenie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no...that’s not what I meant. I mean -- I was somewhere else. The whole time. Did I know you were here? Where could we have been before this?”

 

“Whoa, whoa,” my brother certainly has a lot of questions. Ones I can’t answer. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. I woke up in a box a few years ago not knowing a damn thing ‘cept my name ‘n that I felt really lonely. Dunno where we could’a been before this.”

 

My twin frowns. It’s odd to see, when I take into consideration that our faces are the same. That’s what I look like when I’m unhappy. Huh. Cool.

 

“Either way,” the Greenie turns his eyes back to me as I speak, “I’m glad you’re here. With me.”

 

My face turns pink again and I turn my own gaze away, a little embarrassed by the admission. I don’t know what’s  _ too _ forward and what isn’t. Is it weird to want to wrap him up and never let go? 

 

“Me too.” 

 

His voice is quiet, but it still startles me. I glance to him, bewildered for all of two seconds before I register just what he said. We hold eye contact for a moment. A grin overtakes my features, happiness bursting from my chest. He turns bright red and glances away.

 

“Here we are!” Chuck exclaims, acting like he hadn’t heard us converse at all. He’s a good kid. Sometimes. “This is where you’ll be sleeping. ‘S near the end since you’re a Greenie, we just kinda get put in whatever is added on. I’m right here.” One pudgy finger points proudly to his rumpled green hammock. “So you’re right beside me, since I was the last Greenie.”

 

I drop the stuff I’d carried over just as the Greenie asks, “What about you?” he looks to me, embarrassment forgotten. “Where do you sleep?”

 

“Oh--” 

 

“He sleeps with  _ Newt _ .” Chucks cuts me off, tone teasing. He points a finger down to the other end of the Canopy, where the older Gladers ( me included ) sleep. “Over there.”

 

My twin’s eyebrows raise high up on his forehead and he blinks wildly. His mouth opens and closes for a second before his nose crinkles and he eyes me with curiosity. I blush all the way down to my neck, smacking my hand into Chuck’s curls and rubbing his head until he squeals and bats at my arm.

 

“Shut your face, Chucky.” I scowl, blush only deepening at his laughter.

 

“Huh.” the Greenie mutters, eying the two of us. He doesn’t ask either of us to elaborate, probably not thinking too much of it. I pull away from Chuck, content with my brutal assault. The boy in question huffs and pats at his wild curls.

 

“Anyway,” he says, clearly addressing the Greenie as he moves to pick up some of the supplies and get the Greenie’s sleep space set up. As much as the others pick on him for not being able to do much, he’s actually pretty handy. “It’s basically the same story for all of us.”

 

I press my back to one of the thick tree trunks holding up the sides of several hammocks, knowing my help won’t be appreciated. Instead I’m content to observe my brother, who’s eying his surroundings with curious amazement. 

 

Chuck grunts out a harsh breath as he ties the Greenie’s hammock to one of the trunks securely. “We wake up in the box, Alby gives us the tour….and then here we are.” he pauses momentarily, turning to the actual fabric of the hammock to unfurl it. Then he takes a few steps to the other end and checks the security of that side. “Don’t worry, you’re already doing better than I did.”

 

Hands on his hips, Chuck surveys his work proudly. I clap a little, taking my eyes off my brother to indulge in the smallest Glader’s success.

 

“I klunked my pants three times before they got me outta the pit.” he reveals, turning around. I see the moment his face drops and quickly turn to face my twin, only to see that he’s not there. Straightening from my slouch, I step away from the trunk and catch a glimpse of him walking across the field. Chuck and I exchange a bewildered glance before hurrying after him.

 

The younger boy struggles to keep up with my longer strides. I don’t slow don’t, despite it probably being polite to do so. We catch up with the Greenie as he’s approaching the doors to the Maze. My gut clenches at the sight. I don’t like seeing the form of my brother swamped by those massive doors, the cavernous halls of the Maze an eerie backdrop.

 

“Dude!” Chuck exclaims, forcefully putting an arm on the Greenie to stop his progression. I hover by his side awkwardly. “Where are you going?”

 

We’re still in motion, the Greenie slowing but not stopping. “I just wanna see.”

 

I eye him incredulously. “Is that all you wanna do?”

 

“Yeah,” Chuck pipes up, exasperated. “You can look around all you want but you better not go out there!” It’s a warning, one I hope my twin picks up on. He doesn’t. If anything it makes him  _ more  _ interested.

 

“Why not?” his tawny gaze flickers from Chuck to me, staring into my eyes imploringly. “What’s through there?”

 

Chuck finally puts his arm on the Greenie’s chest and makes him stop a few yards away from the doors. I shiver just looking at them. 

 

“I don’t know.” Chuck bites out, “I just know what I’m told. And we’re not supposed to leave.” He gives the Maze entrance a weary glance.

 

My twin gives a deep sigh, obviously unsatisfied with that answer. He turns his attention to me, expression eager and questioning.

 

I crumble like wet tissue paper. “It’s really, really dangerous. A lot of people have been hurt, it’s why we don’t want just any old shank to go prancin’ around in there.”

 

He opens his mouth to ask another question and then stops, gaze moving over my shoulder. I hear the telltale sound of feet against concrete and turn. Minho and Ben are jogging in, their footfalls becoming softer once they hit the grass. The both move close, expressions bored and tired.

 

“Hey Chuck,” Ben greets with an easy smile. His eyes dance from the small boy to me. “Eddie.” his gaze moves to the Greenie and his face goes white with shock. He fumbles on his feet, coming to a halt, Minho almost slams into his back.

 

“What the shuck--” Minho snarks, pushing away from the other boy.

 

“Dude!” Ben exclaims, his volume easily overtaking Minho’s words. “The Greenie---whoa!”

 

Minho rubs his nose and turns to face us, a scowl on his lips. The angry expression falters once he registers what he’s seeing. He rubs his eyes with his knuckles. “Am I seein’ things or has Eddie gone ‘n multiplied?”

 

“Nope!” Chuck grins proudly, cheeks ruddy. “This is the new Greenie! Him and Eddie are twins, isn’t that cool?!”

 

“Amazing,” Ben agrees, looking between the Greenie and I like he still can’t believe it. Finally he just shakes his head and pats Minho’s shoulder. They have to get back to the Map Room. “We’ll see you around then. Feels good to be promoted, huh Chuck?”

 

“Feels great, Ben.” Chuck gives the Runner an awkward thumbs up as Ben starts jogging away, obviously a little starstruck that one of the senior Gladers had spoken more than a word to him.

 

“Dude,” Minho continues to shake his head even as he turns his body away. “It’s like walkin’ in on one of Newt’s wet dreams.”

 

“Shove off, Minho!” I yelp, leaping forward and giving my friend a good shove to get him running again. He laughs all the way to the Map Room, leaving my cheeks to burn with a blush for what feels like the millionth time today.

 

I glance back at the Greenie to see if he’d heard, but his attention is on Chuck. 

 

“I thought no one was allowed to leave?” he accuses.

 

Chuck looks away from Ben and Minho’s retreating forms, a look of aggravation overtaking his childish features. “I said  _ we’re _ not allowed to leave. They’re different -- they’re  _ Runners. _ They know more about the Maze than anyone.”

 

The Greenie eyes the two Runner’s distant figures with suspicion.

 

“It’s their job.” I explain quietly. “We all have jobs here, and theirs is running the Maze. Only they’re allowed in….”

 

“W-Wait, what?” my twin glances between the two of us, unsettled. I step a little closer to him out of instinct.

 

“What?” Chuck echoes.

 

“What?” the Greenie repeats, like it should be obvious what he’s asking. “You just said ‘Maze’.”

 

“What? I-I did?” the boy almost looks confused at his own words, not realizing he’d let that detail slip.

 

“That’s one too many ‘what’s’ for me.” I murmur under my breath. “We got an echo in here?”

 

Neither of them pay me any mind, my voice too low for them to have picked up anything substantial. 

 

“Yeah,” the Greenie replies, getting visibly worked up. He clenches his fists before nodding sharply and turning towards the doors.

 

“Where are you going?” Chuck yelps, “What are you doing!?”

 

“Hey!” I cry, moving after the two of them. I’m not about to let my own brother wander into the Maze so close to nightfall. The doors will be shutting any moment now. All the Runners were back. “Stop!”

 

“I’m just gonna take a look!” the Greenie tries to placate, walking far too close to the gaping doors for my liking.

 

“No, you don’t get it!” They’re just doors, but for some reason they scare the absolute daylights out of me. Maybe it’s because I know what’s inside. Or maybe it’s because those very corridors drove Newt to climb them. “It’s way too dangerous, especially this late!”

 

My twin is obviously the bull-headed type, because he merely sets his jaw and keeps going.

 

“We said you can’t!” Chuck backs me up, trying once again to forcefully stop my brother with his arms. “Listen to Eddie, he’s been here forever! No one leaves,  _ especially not now _ . It’s not safe.”

 

“Please, listen to us.” I plead, hands held awkwardly towards him like I want to grasp his arm. I don’t, unsure if the contact would be welcome or not and I don’t want to ruin our budding sorta-new relationship. 

 

“Okay, alright!” my twin pats Chuck’s arm and slides it off him. “I’m not gonna go  _ in _ .”

 

Still, he moves forward, staring into the deep corridor as though possessed. The ringing of insects fills my ears, echoing loudly through the doors. I shrink in on myself, the sight of it too terrifying for me. I have no idea what could be so attractive about entering the Maze. The whole place gives off haunted house vibes. It’s like you know there’s a serial killer somewhere in there, just watching you. I’m not dumb enough to go in and see where he is.

 

My brother gets a little too close.

 

“Ok, that’s enough,” I begin, stepping forward to pull him back.

 

I don’t get to, because suddenly there’s a shout of, “Hey!” and my brother is flying through the air.

 

“Gally!” I gasp in startled reprimand, jolting towards my brother where he lay on ground. I’d call out my brother’s name, but I don’t know it yet. So screaming at Gally is really all I can do.

 

The Greenie flinches at my first touch before settling upon realizing it’s me. Gally approaches, looming over the both of us. 

 

“We gotta stop meeting like this, Greenie.” he huffs, eying the two of us with some unknown emotion in his eye. It must be weird to see two different people with the same face -- a face you considered a friend.

 

My brother lashes out, kicking at Gally’s leg and scrambling away. “Get off me!” he grunts wildly, pushing himself to stand and tugging me up with him almost unconsciously. I stumble to my feet, startled by his sudden aggression. Perhaps I should have expected this. After all, he did bolt from the Box. 

 

“All right, calm, calm, calm, calm.” Gally backs up a little, hands spread in front of him. He glances at the white-knuckled grip my brother has on my arm. When he goes to move forward my twin jerks back, taking me with him.

 

“Hey, don’t touch me!” he yells, spit flying and veins in his neck popping. I put a hand on his arm, shuffling close until we’re shoulder to shoulder. He sinks against me like we’re two puzzle pieces. He’s still taut as a bow string and red in the face with anger.

 

“Whoa, take it easy!” Gally backs up again, looking around as boys start to take notice of the little tiff. “Take it easy, just relax! Relax!”

 

The Greenie darts around, shoving me behind him like it’s second nature to protect me. It’s a little funny, seeing as we’ve known each other just a few hours and there’s nothing to protect me from. Still, I grip the back of his shirt.

 

“Calm down, please,” I say, but my words go ignored. He’s too high-strung, emotions hitting a boiling point. I wish I had a name to call him.

 

“Hey, what the hell is wrong with you guys?” he all but screams, shifting his body and occasionally brushing his hands behind him to make sure I’m still there.

 

From over his shoulder I see what looks like the whole damn Glade run over, Newt being the one at the front. His limp becomes visible when he slows his run to a walk, hand outstretched and expression open. We make brief eye contact before he focuses on my brother.

 

“Just calm down, alright?” 

 

“No, okay?!” my twin trembles against me, aggressively gesturing to the Maze. “Why won’t you tell me what’s out there?”

 

Alby holds out a hand too, like it’ll somehow calm the hurricane my brother has become. “Just tryna protect you, man.”

 

“For your own good,” Newt adds, keeping his voice as soothing as possible. It’s the tone he uses when he’s trying to calm me down. My brother actually hesitates for a moment, head tilting towards the blond, before shaking whatever came over him off.

 

“Alright, you guys can’t just keep me here!” he barks, picking his steam back up. 

 

“I can’t let you leave,” Alby’s voice is more ominous than necessary. I send him a scowl over my brother’s shoulder that he doesn’t catch.

 

That’s not the answer my twin is looking for. His response is even more heated. “Why not?!”

 

Just as the words leave his lips, a deep rumbling begins behind me. I tense, for the first time realizing my back is to the doors. Fearfully, I press into my brother’s back. Like he can sense my terror, he spins and grapples my form, pulling me to the side and a little behind him once more. This time he’s facing the doors to the Maze, peering into them with a whitened face.

 

It starts slow. Steady rumbles and the sound of metal shifting. Gears clank and concrete grates loudly against more concrete. It’s loud -- ear-piercing actually, and the movement drives a harsh, wailing breeze through the doors. 

 

“What the hell?” my twin breathes, barely louder than a whisper. He jerks back into me as the doors begin closing. I grip his arms. He stares in utter shock as they steadily shut until they come to a stop and all noise ceases. All that’s left to see is a great big wall of stone.

 

A beat, and then, “Next time? I’m gonna let you leave.”

 

A spike of anger burns through me and I send Gally a frosty glare. I realize he’s very big on the whole ‘tough love’ thing, but this is my  _ brother _ . It’s like it doesn’t even matter to him that the Greenie is important to me! Gally doesn’t meet my eyes and turns away without looking back. The rest of the boys start heading back as well, the show over. Newt sends me a small, troubled grin. I respond with my own.

 

Alby walks up to us, taking in the way the Greenie holds me like he’s forgotten we’re pressed together -- because that’s how we’re  _ supposed _ to be. Naturally. Him and I. Our Leader meets my eye and presses his lips together, dark eyes moving to the back of my twin’s head. The Greenie is still staring at the now shut doors like he can’t comprehend the last few minutes.

 

“Welcome to the Glade.”


	14. Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the super kind comments! i'm really glad you're all liking Eddie's story! we're almost 150k in and we're not even close to the end.....this is gonna be a doozy!

“Come on, it’ll be dark within an hour.” The tense silence is broken by my soft words.

My brother stares at the doors for another moment before turning to me. His eyes are wild and full of questions. I offer him an awkward smile. In the very next moment, he seems to notice that his hands are still on me and drops them, the lost look on his face replaced with a sheepish one. He takes a step back, clearing his throat. For a moment it looks like he’s going to apologize, but he never says anything.

“You’ll get used to it.” Chuck informs dutifully, the one other Glader who stuck around. He’s taking his Greenie-watching duties very seriously.

“Why won’t anyone tell me anything?” My brother mutters, mullish.

Boldly, I reach out to take his hand. “Just be a little patient. You’ll learn all we know soon. Greenie day is just busy -- we have all the supplies that came up to deal with, and half the Glade is workin’ on your welcoming party.”

My twin looks at our joined hands for a moment, not pulling away despite the sour expression on his countenance. I doubt his pouting is a result of my affectionate action. He’s a stubborn, impatient one, that much is obvious. Curious, too.

“I guess.” he gripes, still making no move to dislodge our hands. That in itself makes me incredibly giddy. I think he feels it too, because the dark look is softening.

Turning, I tug him away from the closed doors by the hand. “Before everything gets started I wanna show you where I work!”

“Hey, _I’m_ on Greenie duty!” Chuck toddles after us, indignant. He may complain, but he doesn’t attempt to redirect us anywhere. We start to make our way across the grassy fields, the muggy air already feeling cooler as the sun drops. Sunset streaks bright rays of orange and red across the top of Maze walls, spilling the fiery hues into the Glade.

“Wait,” the Greenie furrows his brow, “Did you say welcoming party?”

We’re halfway to the Medhut now, the two of us striding side by side and hand in hand, Chuck trotting beside us. The youngest is practically bouncing, I don’t know _where_ he’s getting his energy from.

“Yeah!” the pudgy boy cheers, eyes bright. He’s only ever experienced his own welcoming party and he hadn’t really been able to enjoy it. Now that he’s settled, I’m sure the prospect of a party is an exciting one. “We throw one every time a new Greenie comes up. There’s a fire pit ‘n everything!”

Laughing, I give the bubbly boy a look of mock exasperation. “We have a fire pit almost every night, Chucky.”

“I know,” he says, “but this one is different. It’s bigger and we do the cool animal bone thing.”

I pause, a little surprised. “You remember that?” As far as I knew, Chuck had spent his whole welcoming party crying in the bathrooms. ‘As far as I knew’ actually meaning _I definitely knew_ , because I’d been with him the whole time trying to calm him down.

Chuck colors, gaze darting to the ground. “Uh, no. Winston told me while I was cleanin’ the Blood House. Stopped me from tossin’ some animal bones like I usually do ‘cause he said we were savin’ ‘em for tonight.”

“Animal bones? Fire pit?” the Greenie questions, nose scrunching in distaste at the mention of bones.

“It just for decoration.” I elaborate, “The boys can get a little crazy with the party stuff. Greenie day is one of the few times we really let loose.”

“I dunno if I can really enjoy a party.” the Greenie admits, squinting around him. Even though Alby had given him a brief tour, he still looks around like it’s the first time he’s seeing everything. I guess it really does take some getting used to. I myself can’t remember much about my initial opinion of the Glade, just that I’d felt really stressed and anxious for a while.

“Most don’t.” I reply easily, “It’s funny, the welcoming party seems less for the Greenie and more for the rest of us, honestly.”

“I didn’t enjoy mine,” Chuck reveals, ever so open as he tries his best to ‘soothe’ the Greenie’s anxiety. “Was pretty freaked out for a while after comin’ up, but Eddie really helped me settle. He’s pretty good at that.”

I feel my ears turn red at Chuck’s praise and I’m glad when we arrive at our destination. “ _Anyway_ , here’s the Medhut.”

We come to a stop before the decent-sized hut built of thick branches and wood planks. It’s sturdy, improved upon over the years with Gally’s careful supervision. It’s a far cry from the original structure that’d been here when I’d first arrived. I feel a sense of pride looking at it, but also a sense of dread. Stuff like this made the Glade almost feel like a home, when it was really anything but.

Clint and Jeff look up when we enter, eyes darting from me to my brother with laughable synchronicity.

“Clint. Jeff.” I point to each boy with my unoccupied hand as I say their names. “Meet my brother. Currently nameless.”

Jeff meanders over, “Nice to meet you, currently nameless.”

Clint rolls his eyes, moving to stand beside Jeff. “Ignore him. He thinks he’s funny.” He holds out a hand in greeting.

My brother drops my hand to shake Clint’s. “So...you’ve known Eddie for a while, huh?”

“For as long as he can remember.” Jeff responds, crossing his arms. “We were here before him.”

“Just a few months longer,” Clint elaborates. “Eddie was our fifth Greenie to come up. We were part of the original group.”

“Original group?” my brother inquires, glancing between the two Medjacks with unveiled curiosity.

Jeff shrugs, “Twenty of us woke up here, layin’ in the grass. No memories, no clues as to what in the world happened. Then every month another shank came up in the Box. Alby wasn’t very informative, I take it?”

“Not really.” my twin says sourly. “No one seems to want to tell me anything.”

I can tell that even after calming down, he’s still not too trusting of the Gladers. It’s not like I blame him -- coming up in the Box is scary and disorienting, especially on the first day.

He’ll learn eventually that we’re all stuck here together. There isn’t anything to fear from us Gladers. No, he’ll learn to fear only the Creators and the Maze.

 

* * *

 

Night falls. Lanterns are lit and food is set out. Many of the older Gladers light their torches together and circle the structure that’s been prepared in the fire pit.

“Light ‘em up!” Alby calls, and the boys cheer and whoop as they throw their lit spears into the pile of skeletons and wood. There’s something liberating about it. Something wild. It’s a work of art, crafted into harsh shapes and forms with the bones of both animals and trees. It catches fire with ease, all the material dry as a desert.

I don’t throw in a torch but I knock elbows with Newt, who did. He cheers loudly beside Alby, whooping into the night. The fire is a burst of pure heat and I have to take a step back after a minute. The nights may be far cooler than the days, but it’s still nowhere near chilly. Standing so close to the flames becomes uncomfortable after a while.

“GLADERS! GLADERS! GLADERS!” the chants goes up and around, echoing from the mouth of every boy visible. Fists pump into the air and the atmosphere is wrought with exuberance. This is our way of letting go and having fun. We let ourselves get lost in the moment and forget everything.

Newt puts a hand on the small of my back, leaning in close to press a chaste kiss to my fire-warmed cheek. I turn my head and push up on my toes to capture his lips with my own. I remain only for a moment, then pull away and give him a blinding smile. My mood is soaring, far higher than ever before. For once in the life I can remember, I feel _whole_. I feel perfect.

With the rhythmic pounding of drums in my ears and the flurry of dancing and cheering around us, I move again to wrap my arms around Newt. He only hesitates for a moment before returning the gesture, his strong arms circling my back. He kisses the top of my head and we rock side to side for a few seconds.

“I’m so happy,” I whisper into his ear. It bubbles up from within me, this feeling of contentedness. A laugh spills from my lips as I pull away, keeping my hands on Newt’s arms. “I like you so much.”

He smiles like the sun in return, the fire painting him in shades of gold and scarlet. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like...for years, I’ve been seeing everything in muted colors and only really feeling half the world around me. But now? Everything is in stark, vivid clarity.

Newt puts a hand on my cheek and stares at me with impossibly dark eyes. I see firelight reflected in them. “I like you a whole lot, too.”

He kisses me once more, tasting of smoke and herbs. This time, when we part, I pull away completely. I offer my hand and he takes it.

“Wanna help me locate my brother?”

“Lead on,” he replies, squeezing my hand gently. Though he insists we make a short stop to grab some food. When we both have a stick of meat and various vegetables we continue on.

It isn’t hard to find my brother. He’s a little ways away from the celebrating group of Gladers, his back to the festivities. As not to spook him, I don’t attempt to conceal my approach and he turns his head when Newt and I are a few feet away. I drop Newt’s hand so we can clamor over the big log my brother is leaning against, and he glances between the two of us as we sit on either side of him.

It’s quiet for a moment, the sound of crickets and Newt chewing louder than the party behind us. I’m surprised by brother isn’t saying anything. But he does take a sliver of meat when I hand it to him, nodding his thanks.

Finally, Newt breaks the silence. “Hell of a first day, Greenie.” he turns to look at my brother, smacking his lips as he swallows whatever food he’d been chewing.

My twin looks down, plucking at the grass between his legs. I brush his shoulder with my own in comfort. Newt doesn’t let the silence turn awkward, instead reaching down to grab the jar of Gally’s brew he’d acquired when we’d grabbed food.

“Here. Put some hair on your chest.” he passes it to my brother, who takes it after a few moments of consideration.

I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “Hey, you don’t--”

It’s too late. My brother had brought the concoction to his lips in blind trust, taking a large sip. Immediately his face twists and he heaves forward to spit it out on the ground once the foul liquid hits his taste buds.

“Oh jeez,” I mutter, putting a hand on the Greenie’s back and making a sympathetic noise. “That was _mean_ , Newt!”

Newt blinks at me, eyes wide with false innocence. “I jus’ offered ‘im a drink, luv!”

“Oh!” my twin coughs, the sound more of a gagging groan than anything. He spits a few times as Newt laughs, trying to remove the taste from his mouth. “Oh my -- _god_ , what is that?”

The jar is passed back to Newt, my brother looking all too eager to get rid of it. Newt plucks it from my brother’s grasp and holds it up, peering at it as he chuckles. “I don’t even know.”

Nobody does. The thought should probably be a little worrying, actually. All I know is that it’s most definitely alcoholic. I’m not a fan of it in the slightest. Newt’s aware of that. _Very_ aware. He doesn’t drink it as often as he used to, and even then he doesn’t drink a lot. After that disaster that led to our relationship he’d sworn off getting drunk. It was a kind sentiment, but I don’t think it’s necessary. Sure, I’m not a fan of drunk people, but I don’t want him to _not_ enjoy himself just because of me.  

“It’s Gally’s recipe.” Newt continues, glancing back at the party behind us to try and catch a glimpse of the Keeper of the Builders. “It’s a _trade secret._ ”

I glance back as well and catch sight of him in the sand pit, wrestling with what looks like Ric. Can’t be certain from this distance. Could also be Aiden, because the two of them were of similar heights with dark hair.

“Yeah, well, he’s still an asshole.” my brother gripes, looking away from the Builder moodily.

Newt meets my eyes over the Greenie’s shoulders, one eyebrow raised. I shrug. Gally didn’t exactly provide the warmest welcome. He may be my friend but he wasn’t being a very good one today. Newt’s well aware of Gally and I’s unusual friendship, so his concern about my brother’s comment is adorable.

“He saved your life today.” the ex-Runner states, moving his gaze from me to my twin. “Trust me, the Maze is a dangerous place.”

There he goes, trying to work his magic. Newt’s always the one to turn to when you need to break up arguments and settle grudges. And with that, he takes a sip of Gally’s brew, not even making a face when the bitter liquid slips past his lips. He drinks it like a champ, used to the sharp burn of it. It still makes me gag whenever I try a sip, so I’m glad he doesn’t try to offer me any. He knows better.

“It’s like everyone’s been tellin’ ya, Greenie.” I say around a mouthful of some cooked vegetable. I try not to think about what it is, because I’ve never been a fan of vegetables in the slightest. Can’t really afford to be picky here though, so I suck it up and chew. “And it’s what we’ll keep tellin’ ya.”

The Greenie stares at the Maze walls for a moment before shaking his head. A look of frustration passes over his face and he turns to look at me with an indescribable emotion in his eye. “We’re trapped here aren’t we?”

The last part of his sentence is heavy with resignation and it makes my heart sink. In that moment I realize that I’ll do anything to keep that hopelessness off his face. I’ll break down those walls myself before letting him rot in here for the rest of his life.

I press a hand to my brother’s shoulder, but it’s Newt who responds, not looking at either of us.

“For the moment.” he swallows, licking his lips. Another beat passes and he finally glances at us, head bobbing as he turns. “ _But_ \-- you see those guys? There, by the fire?” He twists his upper torso to rest an arm on the log and points at the Runners.

My brother and I follow the direction he points in. I see Minho sitting in the middle of all the Runners, shoveling food into his mouth. Classy, Minho.

“Those are the Runners. And that guy in the middle there, that’s Minho. He’s the Keeper of the Runners. Now, every morning when those doors open, they run the Maze, mapping it. _Memorizing_ it, trying to find a way out.” Newt looks at my brother even as the Greenie doesn’t take his eyes off of Minho and the Runners.

Even so, I can tell he’s hanging on to every word Newt says. I would step in and say something, but I feel like Newt has a handle on the situation. And he was a Runner too, so he….knows, I suppose, how to explain it better than I can. Besides, I don’t _need_ to say anything. My brother is leaning into me, maintaining physically contact. It makes both of us feel better, oddly enough. I can provide tactile comfort much easier than verbal comfort.

“How long have they been looking?” my brother asks, finally tearing his gaze away from the Runners. “Must be a while, seeing as you’re still here.”

Reluctantly, Newt answers, “Three years.”

“You mean--” the Greenie glances between the two of us, looking startled. “They’ve been running this thing ever since you all first came up and they haven’t found anything?”

“It’s a lot easier said than done!” Newt huffs in amusement, smiling despite the fact that there’s really nothing to be smiling about. He shifts and holds up a finger, “Listen.”

My brother squints in confusion and meets my eyes before complying. We sit in silence until the sound of rumbling stone becomes apparent. Now that he’s aware of the sounds, my brother can’t seem to stop paying attention to them.

“Hear that? That’s the _Maze_. Changing.” Newt stares at my brother with utter seriousness. “It changes every night.”

The Greenie slumps into me and I instinctively wrap an arm around him. He doesn’t protest or move away.

“How is that even possible?” he asks weakly, looking pale.

Newt smacks his lips and gives my twin a half-smirk, “You can ask the people who put us in here if you ever meet the bastards.”

I laugh briefly, earning a smug grin from Newt. I’m sure we’d all want to do a little more than _ask questions_ if we ever meet whoever was responsible for us being here. Violence was pretty high on the scale of reactions, actually.

“You guys really don’t know much at all, do you.” the Greenie marvels, but it’s a sad kind of realization.

“Not about the Maze or why we’re here, maybe. But we know plenty of other things.” I pipe up. “I guess that stuff doesn’t seem as important though.”

“It _is_ for our _survival_.” Newt objects firmly. Then, to my brother he says, “Listen, the Runners are the only ones that really know what’s out there. They’re the strongest and the fastest of us all, and it’s a good thing too because if they don’t make it back before those doors close, then they’re stuck out there for the night. And no one’s ever survived a night in the Maze.”

Newt turns away then, taking a large gulp of Gally’s brew. The topic of the Maze always makes him leery. Especially since just two weeks ago we lost Nick to the Maze.

The Greenie stares at him, a crease of tension between his brows. “What happens to them?”

Heart thudding uncomfortably in my chest, I quietly respond, “Grievers.”

My brother looks at me, frowning. “What?”

“That’s what we call them.” Newt picks up the conversation, “‘Course no one’s ever... _seen_ one and lived to tell about it. But they’re out there.”

The Greenie stares at the walls again like he can’t believe the words coming out of Newt’s mouth. It’s more of a ‘I don’t want to believe’ rather than a ‘I really don’t believe’ kind of feeling. Weird murderous monster are just the norm around here.

“Why aren’t you one?”

Newt glances at my brother sharply. “Was till I hurt my leg few months back. Don’t tell me ya didn’t notice my ruddy limp, Greenie. Shuck thing hasn’t been the same since. In fact,” the blond turns his dark eyes to me, features softening. “T’was your twin here that fixed me up.”

“Oh.” Then my brother looks over at me, curious. “Not that it doesn’t seem like you don’t make a great doctor or whatever, but why aren’t _you_ a Runner?”

“Never really wanted to be one.” I admit truthfully. The Maze terrifies me. “‘Sides, I had all this knowledge in my head. Didn’t seem right not ‘t put it to good use.”

“And we’re forever bloody grateful for it.” Newt murmurs. “Me ‘specially.”

My brother squints and shifts his attention between the two of us, suspicious. He opens his mouth but is interrupted by Newt, who smacks him on the shoulder.

“Right, well, that’s enough questions for one night.” he moves to get up, tugging on the Greenie’s arm. “Listen, you’re supposed to be the guest of _honor._ ”

Immediately, the Greenie tries to backtrack, looking none too eager to move, “Oh, well, no, no…”

“No!” Newt shakes his head, a smile crossing his face. The tension from the previous moment vanishes. “No, no, come on. Lemme show you ‘round.”

“Yeah, c’mon!” I pull on the Greenie’s other arm, Newt and I working in tandem to get him to his feet.

Weakly, he looks between the two of us. “I...really, I’m not…”

“Come on,” Newt says firmly. “We’ve got ya.”

We both drag him up a few feet before the Greenie relents and settles on following us. He sticks close to our sides as we maneuver through the crowd of eager boys.

“You must be hungry.” I note, “You haven’t eaten all day aside from that scrap I gave ya.”

My twin shakes his head, “I mean, not really. I dunno. I feel a little sick actually.”

“That’d be the stress.” Guess we were more alike than I realized.

Newt glances over, “We’ll hit up Fry first, then. Gotta get somethin’ in ya, or Eddie here’ll just mother hen ya till you do what he asks.”

I scowl and flush, reaching across my brother to shove at Newt’s shoulder playfully. He laughs and dances away a few feet before returning to our sides.

We come upon the outdoor food canopy where Jack, Fry and Zart all stand. Zart isn’t a cook, but he looks right at home conversing with the other two boys while munching on an ear of corn.

“Frypan!” Newt calls, catching the dark skinned boy’s attention.

“What kinda name is ‘Frypan’?” the Greenie whispers to me.

I snort, pursing my lips. “His actual name is Siggy. Frypan is just a nickname.”

My brother’s face only screws up more in confusion and he mouths ‘ _Siggy?’_ with clear disbelief.

“You think Siggy is a strange name?” I muse, one brow raising. “We’ve just been talkin’ to a boy who’s named _Newt._ ”

He considers this for a second before sighing and shrugging his shoulders. “Ok, you have a point. Didn’t really think of that.”

We arrive at the cooking station, Newt interacting with the other boys with an ease that my brother seems amazed by.

“Show my friend here what bacon tastes like.” the blond grins. Frypan glances at our little group before smiling in return, grabbing a slice of warm bacon from the table and tossing it to my twin.

He scrambles for it awkwardly, trying to catch it. Thankfully, he doesn’t drop it. Not looking at any of us, he takes a tentative bite into the offered food. A second later his eyes widen and he takes another, this time much faster.

Frypan laughs, “Eat up, Greenie.You’ll need your strength workin’ in those fields tomorrow.” He gives a nod to Newt. So that’s where they put him to start. I’m surprised they didn’t stick him with the Slicers first. Maybe they’re assuming he’s more like me. Speak of the devil, Winston strides up a few feet away and picks at some of the food.

Newt smiles brightly, a boyish look that sends my heart racing. His eyes meet mine only for a moment, expression flickering to _knowing_ before shifting back. He puts his hand on my brother’s shoulder and steers him away from the table. “C’mon.”

My brother moves willingly, glancing back at the table. Frypan and Winston dissolve into a mock argument.

“See, the Greenie likes the pork!”

“He doesn’t know what real food _is_.”

We keep walking and I laugh quietly at the happiness around me. Tonight feels so _bright_ and I know it has everything to do with the Greenie’s arrival. Newt keeps a hand on my brother’s back as we walk, stopping him from straying.

“I don’t really _know_ anything about gardening.” my brother reveals, as though we’d have expected him to.

“Ah, it’s alright. Don’t worry about it.” Newt’s hand falls as we move a little further away. “We’ve learned it’s best to let the newbie’s try their hand at everythin’ until we decide where they’ll end up.”

“The test week.” I remember my own a little. It’s been so long though, so some of memories are hazy. “It’s not so bad. Well, I mean -- following around the Baggers for a day sucks. Just from what I’ve seen of you today, I’m pretty sure you’ll hate it.”

“Baggers?” my brother asks, bewildered by the term.

“We’ll get to that. First off--” Newt points a finger in the direction of a group of boys. “--over there we’ve got the Builders. Very good with their hands, but then not a lot goin’ upstairs.”

“Gally’s the Keeper of the Builders.” I chip in, snickering at the stubborn look that crosses my twin’s face at that bit of knowledge.

Newt rolls his eyes and pushes onward. He jabs his finger the direction of another group of boys. I see Winston, who’s left Frypan and joined his group. “And then we got Winston. He’s the Keeper of the Slicers.”

“And you know the Med-jacks,” My two friends brush by, giving us grins and waves.

“Right here! What’s up?” Jeff nods, a smirk across his lips.

“Good to see ya again.” Clint greets. “Yo, Newt.”

“Me, Clint and Jeff.” I continue as the two other Med-jacks move on. “Clint’s the Keeper.”

“They spend most of their time bandaging up the Slicers.” Newt teases, jerking a thumb back in the direction of the Winston.

“Unfortunately, I can confirm that.”

The Greenie’s mouth twists briefly into something that resembles a smile before he looks Newt in the eye, “What if I want to be a Runner?”

I tense, ice sliding down my spine. The very thought of my brother slipping out into that death trap of a Maze is terrifying. I can’t imagine why he’d even want to go out there, especially after we told him the dangers lurking inside. Hell, Newt had even mentioned his _leg_. While he wasn’t really truthful about the reason, he’d given the Greenie the assumption that running the Maze had _crippled him_. I didn’t really approve of lying but it wasn’t my secret to reveal. As far as I knew only Alby, Minho and I knew the true reason for Newt’s injury.

Newt chuckles in disbelief, “Have you listened to a word I jus’ said? No -- No one _wants_ to be a Runner. And besides, you got t’ get chosen.”

“Get chosen by who?”

Newt meets my eye, both of us startled by the determination my brother has to become a Runner. He frowns, about to tell the Greenie to lay off it -- when someone collides with my twin once again. This time it’s an accident, despite being Gally related.

I can practically feel the tension rising as the Builder straightens up, his gaze never straying from my brother despite his opponent being on the ground. Not very sportsmanship-like if you asked me. Another boy helped up the kid Gally had thrown into my twin.

My brother brushes himself off, shoulders tensing like a cornered animal.

“Are you alright?” I ask quietly, putting a hand on his elbow. He glances at me for a second and nods before returning his attention back to Gally.

“What’aya say, Greenie?” the Keeper goads, brows raised in a challenge. “Want to see what you’re made of?”

A chant of “Greenie! Greenie!” begins, starting slow and quiet but quickly gaining traction. I send Jeff a glare, recognizing his voice as the one to start it. He returns my look with a sheepish grin and a shrug, unrepentant.

From a few feet away I see Clint shake his head. “Man, if the Greenie is anything like Eddie he’ll give Gally a run for his money.”

That’s a thought. Before I realize what I’m doing, I peer down at my twin’s hands. To my confusion and relief, they aren’t like mine -- littered with white lines and uneven ridges; instead they’re completely spotless of scars, there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of calluses either. They aren’t _working_ hands.

The chanting gets louder and Gally beckons to my brother with a hand. He doesn’t look malicious, which soothes my nerves a little, but I still don’t really want my brother to be pushed around into the dirt anymore than he has to be. Especially on his first day here. It doesn’t exactly paint the Gladers in a good, trusting light if we beat him into the ground.

Newt takes my hand and tries to pull me back a little, but I tug at my brother’s sleeve before I can be dragged too far away.

“You don’t have to do this. Really.” Our eyes meet and my brother just nods at me with a grim expression. He steps forward and the yelling reaches a crescendo before fading into cheers.

“C’mon, Greenie! Yeah!” Chuck pumps his fist into the air, little body bouncing up and down with the force of his enthusiasm. I don’t feel nearly as excited about this as anyone else, tightening my grip on Newt’s hand.

The blond presses close and brushes his lips past my ear, “Don’t worry, luv. You know Gally won’t hurt him. Not when he’s got a face like that.”

“I doubt you and Gally have the same fondness for my face, Newt.” Is my dry rebuttal. It drags a low chuckle from Newt’s chest, and I feel it against my shoulder more than I hear it. The boys are too loud and rowdy.

“I’d hope not. But he’s your friend, isn’t he?”

Without much thought, I nod. Of course Gally is my friend. I trust him with my life. Maybe I really am just being dramatic. Or overprotective. I did just find out I have a brother, after all. I’m allowed to be a little concerned about his well being!

“Ok.” Gally fixes his rolled up sleeves, pushing them back to his elbows as he paces across the sand pit. “The rules are simple, Greenie. I try and push you out of the circle. You try and last more than five seconds.”

Laughter explodes from the crowd and I feel a sting of mortification in my gut. It makes my anxiety spike and my jaw clench. I have to stamp down the urge to yell at everyone to shut the hell up.

Frypan, ever the mediator, speaks up from near the back of the group. “Go easy on the Greenie, Gally!”

I really hope Gally listens. Newt traces his thumb across my knuckles in an effort to calm me down and I take a deep breath. Just meters away from me my brother does the same, our chests rising and falling in sync.

“Ready?” the Builder asks, before leaping forward the second his next words come out of his mouth. “Come on!”

Immediately he’s upon the Greenie, big hands grasping my twin’s biceps and shoving him backwards with great force. He goes flying into the crowd, Zart and two other boys holding him up and shoving him back into the ring. My brother barely falls a step forward before Gally is swooping to the side and pushing him hard on the back. The Greenie goes sprawling face first into the sand, driving sympathetic noises from the crowd.

I bite the nails on the hand Newt isn’t holding, eyes on my brother as he coughs and pushes himself up. The Greenie twists his torso to look back at Gally, who’s ready and bouncing lightly on his feet.

“C’mon, Greenie. We’re not done yet.” he taunts, fists up as he all but dances backwards.

My twin gets to his feet and fixes his shirt again, jaw set and expression half annoyed, half petulant. “Stop calling me Greenie.”

“Stop calling you that?” Gally huffs a laugh, something menacing in his tone. “What do you wanna be called? Shank?”

The insult causes a ripple of laughter in the crowd. Another sting of humiliation hits me in the stomach. It almost feels like bad acid reflux. I bite down on my lip, wishing more than anything that my twin had some measure of my ability. I didn’t like that he couldn’t defend himself. (I’m not really sure _why_ I didn’t like it so much. What exactly was there to fear here, aside from the Maze?)

“What do you think boys?” Gally continues his taunting, much to the crowd’s enjoyment and my brother and I’s dismay. “Does he look like a shank?”

The chant, which had once been _Greenie_ , is now restarted with the word _Shank._

The Greenie surges forward, angry. He grapples with Gally for a few seconds, his feet sliding on the sand in an unbalanced manner. He’d gone too low though, head at Gally’s torso. The Builder easily wraps his hands around my brother’s shoulder and tosses him to the side, sneering as my twin tumbles and rolls in the sand.

There’s a few more jeers as he pushes himself up once again and spits out dirt. I wince in sympathy, clinging to Newt with a vice grip. It’s probably uncomfortable, but I’m too concerned about my twin to care right now.

“You know what?” Gally muses, like he’s having a casual conversation, “I think I’ve settled on shank.”

From here I can see the flush of embarrassment on my brother’s face and the dark look of anger in his eyes. I feel the very same emotion echo in my chest. When my brother stands tall and lines himself up to run at the other boy, I take a deep breath and just let myself _feel._

Once again, the Greenie goes too low, leaving himself completely open. He’s smaller than Gally and nowhere near as strong, so the Builder has no problem pushing him backwards.

 _That position puts him at a disadvantage._ I think, chewing on my thumb nail. _He should side step. Gally’s putting his weight forward._

Like he’d heard me, my brother suddenly jerks to the side and smacks a hand down on Gally’s lower back, shoving him further forward and using the Builder’s weight against him. Gally takes a dive headfirst into the sand, drawing up a loud round of _Ooooh’s_ from the crowd.

There’s clapping, and I see Alby actually _smile_ as he says, “There you go, Greenie!”

Relief blossoms within me, settling my nerves a bit. I’m glad to finally see the crowd not hurling humiliation at my brother. The Greenie in question turns his head to look at all the hollering boys with something like bewilderment on his face, like he can’t believe how quickly they changed their tune. He pushes himself up from where he’d slid to his knees, having been too low to the ground when he’d sidestepped.

“Not bad for a Greenie, huh?” he taunts once he’s on his feet. I taste pride on my tongue.

Pride is his downfall though, because Gally lashes out with a foot and my brother doesn’t even see it coming.

“NO!” I cry, tearing away from Newt and leaping forward as the Greenie is swept off his feet and slams heavily into the sand. His head cracks against the ground and I stumble, my ears ringing. The crowd is crying out, whether it be in laughter or outrage, I can’t tell. I sink to my knees beside my brother, shaking my head as it throbs dully.

“Hey, hey,” I soothe, brushing a hand across the Greenie’s shoulder as he coughs and blinks. There’s a spark, a moment of clarity. I feel a piece slot into place and when he turns his head to meet my eyes I know the name on his tongue before it leaves his lips.

“Thomas.” he whispers, gazing at me like the world finally makes sense. Suddenly eager, he sits up in my hold, a hand catching my own as he scrambles to his feet and tugs up me up beside him. Our hands stay connected as he speaks, words rushing out of him. “Thomas. Hey! _Thomas_! I remember -- my name, I-I’m Thomas!”

You could hear a pin drop it gets so quiet.

A second later, Alby’s voice cuts through the night. “Thomas!” he cheers, throwing his glass into the air.

Cheers explode from every boy, the crowd moving in like a wave and gathering around my brother and I. Now it is my turn to feel pride, though far less smug and poisonous than my brother’s had been. This is a warm feeling in my chest, a feeling of _contentedness_ that makes the world seem a little bit brighter.

Everyone surges forward but Frypan is the first to reach us, shaking Thomas’ empty hand. “Welcome home, Thomas.”

I clap Fry on the shoulder, grateful for his show of warmth. He grins at me in return and passes us a jar of liquid. Thomas drops my hand to take it, quickly tossing it back as the boys around him holler and cheer and punch their fists straight into the air. After he swallows he makes a face, telling me that the liquid had probably been more of Gally’s brew. This time he handled it much better than earlier.

Gally steps forward and meets my eye, lips twitching and head nodding. It’s probably the closest to an apology I’ll ever get from him. In response I just shake my head and smile softly.

“Good job, Thomas.” he turns his attention to my brother, reaching out to firmly shake hands. Thomas responds in kind, whatever anger he’d been feeling earlier forgotten.

The mood is quickly broken by the sound of a familiar, haunting screech. It sends a bolt of fear right through my heart and I press myself to Thomas’ shoulder. He leans back into me almost instinctively, amber eyes searching the dark.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, softer than I’ve heard him speak all day.

Gally stares at the walls for a second longer before looking back to Thomas. “That, my friend, was a Griever. Don’t worry, you’re safe here with us. Nothing gets through those walls.”

Thomas still looks greatly unsettled, but Gally’s words actually reassure me. I stand up a little straighter. Sounds can’t hurt me. I’ve lived with them for almost three years now. I _knew_ there wasn’t anything to be afraid of. _That didn’t make it any less terrifying to hear._

With the excitement all but extinguished, Alby claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Alright guys, let’s tuck it in for the night. C’mon, it was a good night.”

Everyone shuffles to obey, the crowd breaking up. Boys smack their hands against Thomas and I’s shoulders as they pass, giving words of encouragement. Frypan shakes Thomas’ hand one last time before retreating, and Newt puts a hand on my shoulder. I turn to him as Thomas turns to face the walls again.

“Where’re you gonna be sleepin’ tonight, luv?” he asks, dark eyes flicking from me to my brother.

“In our bed.” I reply after a second. It’ll probably do Thomas some good to get some alone time. He’d been surrounded by people all day and hadn’t gotten a single moment to himself. “I’ll just show him the bathroom ‘n stuff, then I’ll be over.”

“Bathroom?” Thomas interrupts, coming back over to my side.

“Yeah, Greenie. Your lovely twin here’ll show ya the ropes ‘n then it’s off t’ bed for ya.” Newt grins, arms flexing as he jerks a thumb in the direction of the Canopy. “You’ll want a good night’s rest if you’re gonna be workin’ in those bloody fields tomorrow. ‘S rough work, mate.”

“Yeah, alright.” Thomas murmurs.

Newt gives me another look before turning away. “Night, Tommy.”

“C’mon then,” I say, putting a hand on Thomas’ arm. “Lemme show you the bathroom, and we’ll get you your kit.”

 

 

* * *

 

The next morning half the Gladers wake with pounding headaches from all their drinking the night before. I wake to Newt snoring quietly in my ear, one of his hands splayed against my skin under my shirt. Grunting sleepily, I forget for a moment what happened yesterday before it all comes back in a rush. I sit up abruptly, agitating Newt from his slumber.

“Wha’zzit?” he grumbles, limbs sluggish as he moves.

I slip from the hammock, more awake than I was a second ago. “It’s morning!”

Newt tilts his head up, eyes cracked open just a sliver as he observes me blearily. There’s a line of drool at the corner of his mouth and a red crease mark from the hammock on his cheek. His hair is in complete disarray and glows bright gold in the warming sunrise. I coo and step close to squish his cheeks.

“You are so _cute_.”

Newt scrunches his nose and bats my hands away gently, “There’s only room for one cute bloke in this relationship, ‘n that’s _you_.”

“Whatever you say,” I hum, running a hand through his wild hair. For a moment he relaxes into it, head nodding sleepily. Then he jerks up a bit, glancing at me with suspicious eyes.

“What’s got you up ‘n chipper so buggin’ early?”

I make a face at him. “Can’t I just be happy to start a brand new day?”

He makes a face right back. “Yeah ‘n maybe Minho’ll kiss Gally.”

“Ok,” I relent, snickering at the mental image. “I’m just….excited. Because of yesterday, ya know? Still hasn’t _really_ sunk in yet.”

“I know what ya mean.” Newt sighs, looking a little more awake. He shifts in the hammock and I move back to allow him space to get out. Once he’s on his feet he stretches out his leg and sighs. “Don’t freak out too much, alright? He’s not goin’ anywhere. ‘N I’ll have an eye on him the whole bloody day.”

“I know.” Doesn’t mean I won’t be sitting on the edge of my stool in the Medhut all day, wondering how Thomas is doing. It’s a weird thing, suddenly having a whole other person in your life that was _connected_ to you. It made me twice as anxious just worrying about Thomas possibly getting hurt in some way. It also threw me off a bit, caring for someone so deeply so quickly.

“Trust me.” Newt murmurs, reaching up a hand to brush his thumb across my cheekbone.

Just as quietly I say, “I do.”  

“Good that,” He grins, crooked and charming, then takes my hand in his. We walk out from under the Canopy together, into the brilliant glare of the rising sun.

 

* * *

 

I only saw Thomas at breakfast for a moment. He’d been up before Newt and I, Alby having woken him up early to have him carve his name into the Wall, so he’d already gotten a head start on food for the morning. Still, he’d sat beside Newt and I, oddly quiet as we ate. I’d chalked it up to exhaustion and the full weight of the situation finally hitting him.

Now all I can do is just wait until I’m able to see him again. Sitting in the Medhut has never seemed so _awful_. I love it in here, but right now it’s like I can’t sit still. I’m itching to go out and see him. To ask how he’s doing. To just be by his side. I feel a bit like a stretched out rubber band.

“Eddie, please.” Jeff groans, exasperation coating every inch of his being.

“What?” I ask, blinking.

He gestures to me wildly. “Stop fidgeting! And tapping your pencil!”

I glance down to see that my hand is, in fact, twitching and smacking my pencil repeatedly into the wooden surface of the desk. My leg is also jittering up and down.

“Oh.” A flush rises to my cheeks and I halt my unconscious movements, putting the pencil down completely. “Sorry about that.”

“You’d think you’d feel settled now, not even _more_ anxious.” Clint murmurs, not looking up from his work. The physicals are due to start soon. I should be more focused, but I can’t make myself do anything while my head is filled with thoughts of Thomas and how he was settling in. Maybe it would have been better to stay by him last night.

“Eddie, c’mon man,” Jeff snaps, fingers waving in front of my face.

I start, eyes wide and mouth pursing. My mind had wandered again. Oops. I offer a sheepish smile, to which Jeff only shakes his head and throws his hands up.

“Sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” The sun is nearing the middle of the sky, lunch just around the corner. I wonder if I’ll be able to see Thomas then. Am I being clingy? Don’t I have a right to be? I press my fingers to my temples, letting out a huff of breath. My gut churns.

It hits me all at once, a shocking, icy feel of _wrongness._ I sit up in my seat, terror so strong in my throat I gag on it. Something is _screaming_ at me, crying out in fear, desperate for help. With a jolt I stand, the abruptness of the motion sending the stool I’d been sitting on toppling to the ground. Clint and Jeff both look up at me, identical looks of confusion on their faces. I barely notice, sweat forming on my brow and pure adrenaline surging through me.

Clint moves to stand, “What--”

I don’t stick around to hear the rest, bolting out of the Medhut in the next instant. My two friends call out in surprise behind me, but I don’t look back to see if they’re following. Deep in my very soul I know it’s _Thomas._ My brother is in trouble. There’s a vice around my neck that makes me cough, but when I clear my throat and shake my head it disappears. Whatever, I can’t afford to think about it when Thomas is in danger. As if guided by instinct, I immediately seek out the Deadheads across the fields. As I run, I hear the commotion Clint and Jeff are making behind me, as well as another sound.

Yelling. Someone is yelling, no, _screaming_ out.

I’m almost to the Deadheads when I see Thomas burst from the treeline, dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and face white with fear. His mouth is open in a cry that I can barely hear, my head filling with white noise as his terror and my own combines and overtakes me like a tidal wave.

A scream tears itself from my throat, “THOMAS!”

A blurred form tackles him to the ground and he yelps in pain, limbs flailing as he tries to dislodge the offender. I surge forward the last few feet and throw myself atop the writhing bodies. My hands find purchase in a dirty, sweat-stained white shirt and leather. Running gear. I try not to think about it too much, more concerned with removing the person from my brother. Sharp elbows jut out, the form below me is both taller and more muscular. I wrap my arms around the attacker’s neck, my knees locked against his sides.

“Let go of him!” I yell, tightening my grip until I hear the person choke. They only reply with snarls and jerk their body in creepy, unnatural ways. Dread hits me, though I don’t know why the odd movements would inspire such fear within me. In my distraction, I don’t see the hit coming until it’s too late. Dirty blond hair smashes into my nose when the offender headbutts backwards, and when I loosen my arms in surprise an elbow digs into my gut.

I crumple backwards, wet heat spilling from my nostrils. I taste iron on my tongue and see stars behind my eyelids. Winded, I fall to the grass and clap my hands over the bleeding appendage instinctively, crying out in pain.

“HEY!” A roar rings out, hard and tinted with rage. I grit my teeth and manage to crack my eyes open enough to see a shovel connect with -- with _Ben’s_ head. Newt stands, sun at his back, glowing like a wrathful angel. His dark eyes burn and a muscle in his jaw jumps, muscled arms securely holding the shovel up threateningly. For a moment it looks like he considers swinging again, but he doesn’t. Instead he drops the shovel off to the side and moves to help Gally secure a struggling Ben.

“Hold him down,” he growls, and then to the crazed Runner he snaps, “What are you doin’!?”

I huddle in on myself as boys surge in, hands reaching out to pin Ben down. Thomas scurries over to me, his eyes glassy and his throat red. Without a second thought he reaches for me and holds me, arms darting around my shoulders. We sit there on the ground and breathe, bodies in sync. I try not to sniff, eyes stinging with tears of pain. My nose can’t afford to be agitated right now, lest I worsen whatever damage has been done. That doesn’t stop the pitiful noises from crawling their way out of my throat, as embarrassing as it is. My pain tolerance seems to be pretty high, but everyone knows the nose is a pretty sensitive place.

“What the hell happened?” Frypan asks, his voice loud as he drops beside Gally and looks back at us.

“He just attacked me!” Thomas exclaims, sounding just as frazzled as he looks.

Chuck comes up beside us and puts his hand on Thomas’ shoulder, looking between the two of us. “You ok -- oh, shuck! Eddie, you’re bleeding all over the place!”

“Ib’s noffing.” My words come out mangled due to my clogged and rapidly swelling nose. I spit out a glob of blood and saliva. It’s definitely not nothing.

“Nothing?” Thomas echoes. “He totally broke your nose!”

“We dob’t bow dat.”

Thomas scoffs as my lackluster reply. “Well it sure _feels_ like it!”

I don’t have time to dwell on that odd response, as Ben finally seems to regain some sense of clarity. He stops struggling for a moment and open’s his blue, bloodshot eyes. Blood trails down his face from a wound on his head, just by the corner of his left eye.

“Calm down, Ben.” Gally urges with a voice softer than I’ve heard from him in a long while. For a moment Ben sags, but then his eyes snap to Alby as the teen approaches.

“No. No. No.” Ben mutters, becoming visibly distressed. “Please, I didn’t mean it!”

“Alright, lift his shirt.” Alby sighs, looking exhausted. “Lift his shirt!” If it is what we all think it is, then there’s nothing we can do. Especially after Ben attacked Thomas. He broke one of our most important rules.

“No! No.” Grunting, Ben begins to struggle more violently against the hands on him. “No, no, please. Please!”

The dirty shirt is pulled up, revealing a round, needle-like wound that’s purpling. Ben’s skin is pale all around it, veins of blue and black and red snaking out, like tendrils of poison just below the surface. Alby crouches beside Gally, looking at the injury with a blank face.

I gasp, a wet, weak sound. Thomas tenses beside me, looking startled and ill. A chorus of disbelieving and disgusted noises rise and settle. Through my damp eyelashes I peer at the boy pleading and snapping at the hands holding him down, unable to compare such a creature to the sunny Ben I’d known for so long. A stone settles in my stomach. I feel sick, and not just because of the blood on my tongue.

“He’s been stung?” Gally notes, his voice coated with disbelief. He looks up from the wound on Ben’s abdomen to glance at Newt and Alby, as though they could somehow have the answers. “In the middle of the day?”

Thomas helps me rise to my feet, altering between looking in concern at my bloody face to looking in wild confusion at the scene before us. I have to look away when Ben’s face scrunches up and he sobs, begging for help. If I could, I’d tuck my face against Thomas’ shoulder and cover my ears. I can’t stand to see someone I consider a friend in pain, even after he’d attacked my brother and headbutted me square in the nose. Ben had been stung, he isn’t in his right mind. I can’t blame him for his actions, even if they don’t make much sense.

“Put him in the pit.” Alby stands, hand waving towards the pseudo jail. “C’mon, everybody help! Take him to the pit!”

There’s a flurry of movement as Newt and Gally and a few other boys start to shift Ben, fighting against his surprisingly violent struggles.

“Med-jack!” Newt calls, face a careful mask of concentration. Jeff and Clint are immediately at his side, helping. He glances up to meet my eyes for a moment, lips pursing when he observes my face. Then he focuses back to the task of moving Ben.

“Please! Please don’t do it!” Ben cries, his voice cracking. He keeps screaming and pleading, arms and legs flailing as much as possible, his torso rolling.

“Calm down, Ben!” Gally winces and his arms tense, veins popping with the force he’s using to keep Ben from escaping.

But Ben doesn’t listen. He keeps screaming. “No! NO! LISTEN TO ME!”

The boys ignore his wild calls, gathering around his body and hoisting him up. The group transporting him continues to try and calm him down with words, but their repeats of ‘ _calm down_ ’ don’t seem to do much good. They carry him away and his crying gets fainter, but every word he screams out with his straining voice sticks with me and hammers a seed of fear into my heart.

Alby passes us with a merely a glance. “Get that fixed up.”

“Right.” I mutter numbly, sagging against Thomas a little. He tightens his grip on me. The boys do their best to shake off the experience and slowly begin to scatter, heading right back to work. We can’t halt the day, no matter how awful the events that just took place are.

Thomas swallows, an audible sound that draws my attention from the procession heading for the Slammer. His face is still pale, sweat sliding from his temple. He doesn’t look like he’s going to cry anymore, even though his lips are stiff and his jaw is clenched. As if he feels me watching him, he turns and meets my eyes. We’re exactly the same height, I note.

“Let’s get you to the Medhut, then.” he finally speaks, faint and trembling. “I’m sure between the two of us we can clean that up.”

I take one more glance in the direction of the slammer, not exactly sure what I’m hoping to see. Maybe Newt, even though I knew he had more important things to worry about right now. “Okay.” I let out a quiet, pained exhale -- then I allow my brother to lead me away.


End file.
